UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


CIRCUMSTANCE 


PITY  ME,  LUKE!      I  AM  SO  UNHAPPY  !  '" 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


C49 

1905 


CIRCUMSTANCE 


On  a  hilltop  of  an  island  endeared  to 
me  by  many  memories,  the  ocean  wind 
has  permanently  bent  pine,  fir  and  spruce. 

Here  and  there  a  single  tree  remains 
upright,  —  stanchly  refusing  to  record 
the  effect  of  circumstance  on  character. 


OIECUMSTANCE 


was  nearly  full  moon  on  Long  Island 
(Sound — a  night  so  faultless  that  almost 
all  of  the  few  passengers  on  the  steamer 
were  out  upon  deck.  High  in  air  above 
them  the  dark  walking  beams  swung 
up  and  down,  and,  quivering  with  their  power,  the 
huge  bulk  of  the  steamer  hurled  on  through  the 
snow-white  lift  of  water  cast  from  her  cleaving  bow. 
A  young  girl  and  a  man  leaned  over  the  rail,  gaily 
chatting,  unsubdued  by  the  radiant  beauty  of  a 
windless,  moonlit  night  which,  by  degrees,  had 
brought  to  unexplained  silence  most  of  the  groups 
scattered  here  and  there  along  the  decks. 

From  the  level  of  the  upper  deck  a  woman  of 
some  thirty-six  years  watched  the  couple  on  the  bow. 
Once  or  twice  she  looked  at  her  watch,  and  at  last, 
seeing  them  move,  went  down  to  the  lower  deck, 
where  she  met  them  walking  aft. 

"My  dear  Miss  Morrow,"  she  said,  "I  have  been 
looking  for  you  everywhere.  I  was  told  you  were 
on  board.  Imagine  my  surprise !  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Masters  must  want  a  cigar,  and  will  let  me  have  you 
for  a  walk  on  deck." 


4  CDJCUMSTANCE 

Mr.  Masters  was  entirely  willing,  and,  with  a  civil 
word  of  conventional  protest,  left  them,  saying  he 
would  look  after  them  at  the  pier  in  New  York 
next  morning. 

Miss  Morrow's  greeting  of  the  older  woman  had 
been  warm  and  honest.  As  he  turned  away  Mrs. 
Hunter  said : 

"Were  I  in  Mr.  Masters 's  place  I  should  hate  Mrs. 
Hunter;  but  the  fact  is  I  do  want  to  have  you  to 
myself." 

Miss  Morrow  remarked  that  it  was  "awfully 
nice." 

"I  was  greatly  surprised,"  said  her  friend,  "to 
find  that  you  had  left  Newport,  and  to  know  that 
I  was  on  the  boat  with  you  did  seem  better  fortune 
than  life  usually  provides  for  me." 

4 '  I  called  to  tell  you  I  was  going, ' '  said  Miss  Mor- 
row; "you  were  out—" 

"Come  to  the  stern."  They  gave  up  the  sug- 
gested walk,  and  sat  down  by  themselves  where  they 
could  see  the  white  wake  of  the  steamer  melt  into 
the  distant  darkness.  The  mysterious  beauty  of  sea 
and  sky  affected  neither  of  them. 

"I  cannot  help  repeating,"  Mrs.  Hunter  began, 
"what  luck  it  is  to  find  you  on  board."  (She  had 
taken  care  to  arrange  that  this  fortunate  meeting 
should  occur.) 

Miss  Morrow  again  explained:  she  had  meant  to 
write,  but,  really,  there  was  too  much  to  do;  her 
maid  was  to  remind  her  and  never  did — 

"And,"  said  the  elder  woman,  "we  might  never 
have  met  again." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  5 

"Oh,  but  we  should!  I  should  have  written  to 
New  York— you  know  I  have  your  address." 

"Ah,  dear  child!  You  would  have  quite  forgot- 
ten me  in  the  joys  of  a  happier  life." 

"Oh,  no,  no!" 

"Pardon  me.  No,  you  would  not.  How  a  night 
like  this  sets  one  to  thinking.  This  sad  world  is  full 
of  broken  friendships.  One  meets  a  woman  like 
you,  a  person  of  force  and  character,  and  then— the 
accidents  of  life  part  them  and  they  meet  no 
more — "  she  paused — "no  more  on  earth." 

Miss  Kitty  sat  up,  conscious  of  a  form  of  appre- 
ciative consideration  to  which  she  was  not  elsewhere 
accustomed.  Her  appetite  for  flattery  was  bound- 
less. She  had  the  avarice  of  praise,  and  was  willing 
to  pay  for  it  in  her  own  feebler  coinage. 

"Oh,  to  have  you  say  so,"  she  said;  "a  woman 
like  you,  Mrs.  Hunter — " 

"I  felt,  my  dear,  when  we  first  met  that— well, 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  friendship  at  first  sight,  just 
as,  alas !  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love  without  second 
sight." 

"Oh,  what  a  clever  idea,  Mrs.  Hunter." 

"Why  must  you  call  me  Mrs.  Hunter?  In  the 
colder  world  of  misapprehending  people  it  may  be 
as  well,  but  when  we  are  alone,  dear,  alone,  let  it 
be  Lucretia.  It  seems  to  bring  two  kindred  hearts 
more  near  together."  Much  amused,  she  smiled 
under  the  veil  of  shadows. 

Miss  Morrow  murmured : 

"Lucretia!  I  will  try;  but  you  do  seem  so  far 
above  me,  so  much  older —  " 


6  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Whether  she  was  quite  able  to  believe  anyone  her 
mental  superior  may  be  doubted,  but  she  made  be- 
lieve to  herself  to  believe  it,  being,  like  many  people 
of  thin  intellect,  an  actress  in  a  small  way — and 
with  one's  self  for  sole  audience  this  answers  well 
enough. 

"And  now,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  "tell  me 
more  of  your  own  life.  What  can  be  as  interesting 
as  a  life?  It  remains  always,  to  some  extent,  un- 
known. Its  residue  of  mystery  is  its  charm.  The 
novelists  are  the  fools  of  their  fancies.  Tell  me 

)  about  yourself.  Rational  talk  is  quite  impossible 
in  these  social  camps  we  absurdly  call  'watering- 
places.'  "  ^/ 

"Just  as  if  we  were  horses,"  said  Miss  Morrow. 

"How  witty!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hunter.  "How 
delightful!  I  must  remember  that.  If  ever  you 
hear  me  use  it,  don't  betray  me." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Miss  Morrow,  well  pleased  and 
serious. 

"But  I  do  want  to  hear  all  about  you,  and  of  that 
cousin  of  whom  everyone  speaks  with  admiration. 
I  suspect  Mr.  Masters  is  a  little  afraid  of  her — and 
I  do  want  to  hear  of  your  uncle,  too.  Mr.  Went- 
worth  describes  him  as  a  most  interesting  talker." 

Kitty  was  too  well  trained  to  pour  herself  out,  as 
yet,  with  entire  frankness,  but  she  soon  allowed  the 
shrewd  woman  at  her  side  to  understand  that  she 
felt  herself  the  victim  of  an  exacting  old  man,  and 
that  she  was  scarcely  appreciated,  as  she  thought 
'  she  had  a  right  to  be,  by  this  cousin,  Miss  Fair- 
thorne.  Mrs.  Hunter's  hand  sought  that  of  the  girl, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  7 

and  for  a  moment  expressed  thus,  and  by  silence, 
the  sympathy  she  meant  to  offer. 

"My  friend,"  she  said  at  last,  "I,  too,  have  the 
deeper  experience  of  sorrow  which  no  years  can 
bury.  If  the  thought  and  tenderness  of  an  older 
woman  can  ever  help  and  guide  you,  they  are  yours. 
It  is  not  rare  that  a  stranger  should  best  understand 
a  soul  as  peculiar  as  yours." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Kitty,  feeling  more  in- 
tensely than  ever  how  completely  she  had  been  un- 
derestimated at  home.  Here,  at  last,  was  one  who 
comprehended  her.  She  had  been  made  to  feel  this 
before  when  she  had  met  Mrs.  Hunter  at  Newport. 
That  lady  had  said  to  her : 

"You  should  not  permit  yourself  to  be  called 
Kitty,  and  I  hope  that  you  spell  Katherine  with 
a'K.'" 

Katherine  was  delighted. 

"I  shall  always  hate  to  hear  you  called  Kitty. 
Katherine — Katherine  with  a  K  seems  to  suit  you — 
to  be  really  fitting. ' ' 

Here  again  was  insight  truly  remarkable.  People 
do  not  very  eagerly  investigate  the  source  of  flattery, 
and  even  if  Miss  Kitty  had  known  how  easily  Mrs. 
Hunter  had  gathered  her  material  it  is  still  likely 
that  the  willing  receiver  would  have  been  more 
pleased  than  critically  curious.  Any  one  of  the 
young  women  who  were,  for  the  time,  of  Miss  Mor- 
row's circle,  could  smilingly  have  given  all  the  fore- 
knowledge which  Mrs.  Hunter  required,  and  now 
made  use  of  so  cleverly. 

"My  cousin  Margaret,"  said  Miss  Morrow,  "says 


8  CIRCUMSTANCE 

'people  are  so  often  injudiciously  labelled.'     How 
just  you  are,  Mrs.  Hunter." 

"Lucretia,  dear,"  corrected  the  elder  woman; 
"Lucretia,  love." 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  come  from  Wiesbaden  with  the 
Wenhams,  had  made  herself  useful  to  an  invalid' 
daughter,  and  so  agreeable  to  everybody  that  an  in- 
vitation to  spend  a  month  with  them  at  Newport  had 
ended  in  its  extension  for  another  like  term.  Then 
her  hosts  went  away  to  their  city  home  and  Mrs. 
Hunter  felt  that  a  promising  campaign  had  ended 
without  practical  results.  The  Wenhams  had  parted 
with  her  civilly  but  without  sign  of  deep  regret, 
except  in  the  case  of  their  daughter,  who,  in  her 
hysterical  craving,  foresaw  the  loss  of  demonstra- 
tive sympathy.  Mrs.  Hunter,  considering  in  turn 
the  sons,  the  father,  and  finally  the  mother,  said  to 
herself  at  last : 

"I  ought  to  have  cultivated  that  doctor."  She 
had  enjoyed  the  game  and  now,  regretting  a  partial 
defeat,  was  ready  to  play  again. 

After  a  while  she  began :  ' '  How  one  is  tempted  by 
a  friendly  heart  and  the  silent  confessional  of  night ! 
If  ever  I  tell  my  life  story,  dear,  to  you,  it  will  be 
thus — alone,  in  the  night,  when  you  cannot  see 
my  face.  You,  also,  I  know  have  suffered.  It  is 
eloquently  written  on  a  too  expressive  brow;  a 
tender  riddle,  my  dear,  which  few  know  how  to 
read." 

If  Kitty  had  been  able  to  purr,  it  is  probable  'that 
she  would  have  vibrated  with  that  instinctive  signal 
of  feline  satisfaction.  She  was  young,  pretty,  vain, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  9 

greedy  of  all  forms  of  homage.  She  had  been,  for 
her,  unusually  quiet.  Now  she  spoke: 

"How  good  you  are,  and  you  have,  as  Mr.  Knell- 
wood  once  said  of  my  cousin  Mary,  'that  reserve  of 
the  high-minded  which  adds  a  mysterious  interest  to 
life.'  " 

Mrs.  Hunter  smiled  anew  under  the  partial  mask 
of  moonlight  shadows. 

"Fine,  very  fine,  that — and,  I  hope,  true!"  she 
exclaimed.  "But  who  is  Mr.  Knellwood?" 

"My  rector,"  replied  Kitty;  "my  confessor,"  she 
added,  under  her  breath. 

Mrs.  Hunter  made  mental  note  of  it. 

"Well,  I  shall  soon  be  in  your  city;  I  shall  hope 
to  know  him.  I  have  a  letter  from  my  own  dear  old 
rector  at  Umstead.  I  had  a  Sunday-school  class 
there.  Ah,  the  quiet  of  that  life  of  peace !  Ah,  the 
dear  little  old  village !  Well,  well !  Shall  we  walk, 
Katherine,  or  shall  it  be  bed  ? ' ' 

Miss  Kitty,  yawning  under  her  hand,  thought  the 
latter  preferable.  Mrs.  Hunter  had  given  her  so 
much  to  think  about. 

When,  in  the  early  morning,  Mrs.  Hunter  parted 
from  Miss  Morrow  on  the  pier  in  New  York,  it  was 
with  a  solemn  promise  not  to  fail  to  let  Miss  Kather- 
ine know  when  she,  Mrs.  Hunter,  would  have  a 
chance  to  see  her  in  her  own  city  and  home. 

"You  will  be  most  welcome,  most  welcome!  And 
be  sure  to  write  to  me.  I  know  how  busy  you  are, 
but  do  find  a  little  time  for  poor  me." 

It  seemed  that  there  was  an  article— Mrs.  Hunter 
had  not  decided  what  title  to  give  it — it  was  for  the 


10  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Atlantic"  magazine.  It  would  keep  her  occupied 
in  New  York  for  a  while.  At  last  they  kissed  and 
parted.  Miss  Kitty  said  amiable  good-byes  to  a 
group  of  summer  friends,  men  and  women,  and  then 
turned  to  Mr.  Masters,  who  was  watching  with  inter- 
est Miss  Kitty's  performance.  She  was  the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  loved,  whom  he  did  not  after- 
ward regard  with  the  kindliest  of  liking.  He  would 
gladly  have  avoided  her  on  the  steamer,  but  her 
people  were  old  friends,  and  she  herself  was  not  easy 
to  avoid. 

He  waited  patiently  and  at  last  saw  the  young 
woman  and  her  maid  into  their  carriage.  As  he  set 
foot  on  the  step  of  his  own  cab  he  looked  back  at 
Mrs.  Hunter,  as  she  stood  bargaining  with  a  hack- 
man. 

"Well,"  said  an  elderly  man,  who  was  to  share 
his  carriage,  and  was  already  seated,  "do  you  know 
that  lady?  What  a  figure!  I  noticed  her  on  the 
boat.  She  walks  well!" 

"I  cannot  say  I  know  her,"  said  Mr.  Masters. 
"I  have  talked  to  her  pretty  often.  I  rather  think 
I  ought  to  say  she  has  talked  to  me. ' ' 

"That  is  all  we  know  of  most  people,"  said  his 
friend;  "get  in,  I  want  my  breakfast." 

As  they  drove  up-town,  he  asked  where  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter came  from.  Mr.  Masters  said,  with  a  lift  of  his 
brow,  that  he  had  never  asked  her,  but  that  some- 
one had  said  she  gave  the  impression  of  an  actress 
of  distinction  who  had  retired  from  the  stage.  His 
companion,  a  shrewd  old  leader  of  the  bar,  re- 
turned : 


CIRCUMSTANCE  11 

" Actress?  Yes-but  retired?  No!  She  is  still 
in  business. ' ' 

Mr.  Masters,  summing  up,  remarked  that  she  was 
handsome,  had  a  neat  figure,  dressed  well  and  not 
too  much,  as  to  all  of  which  Mr.  Masters  was  as  good 
an  authority  as  on  pigeon-shooting  or  salmon-fishing. 


II 


was  afternoon  of  a  mild  October  day. 
The  open  windows  of  a  large  room  on  the 
second  floor  of  a  house  on  Fourth 
Street,  near  to  Spruce,  in  the  city  of 
Penn,  looked  out  on  a  broad  garden, 
which  extended  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
westward  and  was  now  carpeted  with  the  fallen  red 
and  gold  of  a  wide-spreading  maple.  Here  and 
there  were  a  few  late  roses,  amid  a  more  seasonable 
growth  of  asters,  scarlet  sage,  and  marigolds.  The 
room  was  empty.  A  wood  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth. 
Presently  a  large,  yellow  Angora  cat  leaped  into  the 
window  from  the  roof  of  the  veranda.  The  minia- 
ture tiger  trod  with  care  over  the  account  books 
and  inkstand  of  a  well-ordered  table.  Lightly  mov- 
ing, the  cat  reached  a  cushioned  easy-chair,  and,  coil- 
ing herself  into  a  mound  of  dark  orange-tinted  fur, 
went  peacefully  to  sleep,  undisturbed  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  girl  of  some  twenty-three  years  of  age. 
Miss  Fairthorne  looked  about  her  with  an  air  of 
relief,  pleased  to  find  a  place  where  she  could  be 
alone.  She  gently  lifted  the  cat  and  took  her  place 
near  the  window,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  fading  day. 
"If,"  she  murmured— "if  ever  I  have  a  home  of 
my  own  I  shall  have  a  hermit-room  on  the  roof." 
12 


CIECUMSTANCE  13 

Thus  musing,  she  sat  down,  took  a  pen  from  the 
/    table,  and,  unlocking  the  clasp  of  a  rather  large 
diary,  was  soon  busily  engaged  in  the  transfer  of  her 
thoughts  to  its  pages. 

A  few  minutes  later  her  lips  parted  with  a  slight 
expression  of  annoyance.  A  much  younger  and 
very  pretty  girl  announced  her  presence  by  a  merry 
laugh  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "I  have  been  looking  for  you 
everywhere.  You  told  me  you  had  to  talk  to  the 
cook."  The  tone  was  reproachful. 

"It  was  true,  Kitty;  but,  also,  I  have  now  and 
then  to  talk  to  myself,  and  really,  dear,  in  this  house, 
what  with  my  uncle's  wants  and  the  endless  proces- 
sion of  people  who  waste  my  time  and  their  own,  I 
find  it  hard  to  get  leisure  to  read  a  page,  or  to  think 
in  peace." 

"But,"  said  the  girl,  with  excess  of  emphasis, 
"my  dear  Mary,  what  is  there  to  think  about f  I 
have  so  much  to  tell  you.  There  was  Long  Branch, 
and  then  Newport— 

"But,  Kitty,  you  really  wrote  a  good  deal,  and  I 
lay  awake  last  night  until  one  o'clock,  while  you  sat 
on  the  bedside  and  told  me  no  end  of  things  about 
people  in  whom  I  have  less  interest  than  in  Felisa, 
the  cat." 

"But  I  did  not  nearly  finish,"  said  Miss  Morrow; 
"I  met  Mr.  Masters  on  the  boat" 

"That  must  have  been  interesting — I  should  say, 
exciting.  Well,  go  on,  Kitty." 

/      Miss  Fairthorne  gave  up  in  despair  and  shut  her 
v    diary  with  a  sharp  movement. 


14  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  do  not  see,  Mary,  why  you  are  so  cross,"  said 
Kitty. 

"Am  I  cross,  dear?" 

"Yes,  you  are;  you  shut  up  that  tiresome  diary 
the  way  Uncle  John  slams  a  door." 

"I  do  not  mean  to  be  cross."  As  she  spoke  she 
rose,  a  strongly-built  young  woman,  whose  rather 
large  features  and  unusual  height  would  acquire 
new  esthetic  values  as  she  came  to  middle  age.  She 
kissed  her  cousin  and  petted  her  with  tender  touches, 
saying  pleasant  things  of  her  gown  and  her  looks, 
knowing  well  her  appetite  for  such  food.  The 
younger  woman,  satisfied  with  tributes  to  which  she 
was  well  accustomed,  regained  her  lost  temper  and 
began  again  to  pour  out  her  flood  of  quite  harmless 
gossip. 

As  they  stood,  Mary  Fairthorne  looked  down  on 
the  rosy,  vivacious  little  cousin  with  now  a  kindly 
caressing  touch,  and  now  an  uninterested  but  posi- 
tive "Ah!"  or  "Really!"  "Is  that  so,  dear?"  and 
the  like. 

This  girl  of  twenty-three  years  was  engaged  in  the 
construction  of  character  out  of  strong  but  not  very 
plastic  material.  The  cousin  known  to  her  inti- 
mates as  Kitty  was  as  nearly  an  instinctive  creature 
as  evolutionary  forces  and  educational  training  per- 
mit a  young  woman  of  her  class  to  be.  Life  seemed 
as  easy  to  her  ready  acceptances  as  it  was  difficult 
to  the  larger  nature,  which  possessed  far  wider 
horizons  both  past  and  future.  More  womanly  than 
her  cousin  Kitty,  she  was  less  obviously  feminine, 
and  was  a  person  about  whom  people  were  apt  to 


CIECUMSTANCE  15 

express  decisive  opinions  of  rather  varied  character. 
Her  patience  seemed  to  be  near  to  its  reward  when 
Kitty  said : 

''Now  I  must  go  and  see  Margaret  Swanwick." 

She  turned  at  the  doorway : 

"What  were  you  writing  in  your  diary?" 

Miss  Fairthorne  smiled. 

"Do  you  really  want  very  much  to  know,  Kitty?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!" 

"And  you  will  never  tell?" 

"Never." 

Mary  opened  her  diary  and  read : 

"Mahomet  says,  'When  one  of  you  getteth  angry, 
he  must  sit  down,  and  if  his  anger  still  endure,  let 
him  lie  down.'  ' 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Kitty,  "that  there  was  any 
need  to  promise  secrecy  if  that  's  all." 

She  was  as  nearly  without  sense  of  humor  as  the 
slumbering  Angora  on  the  hearth-rug. 

"  Try  it  when  Uncle  John  is  at  his  worst, ' '  laughed 
Mary. 

"But  I  never  get  angry  without  cause,  and  then, 
as  Mr.  Knell  wood  says,  'There  is  a  righteous  anger 
and  an  unrighteous  anger.'  ' 

This  sort  of  vagueness,  the  quoting  of  other  folk's 
wisdom  and  the  lack  of  sense  of  the  comic,  were  apt 
to  exasperate  the  tall  cousin.  Now  she  merely  said : 

"Well,  by-by,  dear.     Try  Mahomet's  receipt." 

As  she  spoke  she  playfully  pushed  Kitty  through 
the  doorway.  Then  she  stood  for  a  moment,  and 
reopened  her  diary. 

"I  forgot,"  said  Kitty,  turning  back,  "I  forgot 


16  CIRCUMSTANCE 

to  ask  you  to  remind  me  to  tell  you  about  Mrs. 
Hunter." 

Mary  Fairthorne  sat  down.  She  had  stood  Kitty's 
amiable  and  too  merry  volubility  for  a  large  part  of 
the  day  and  had  given  up  to  the  girl  more  hours 
than  she  cared  to  waste.  She  was,  to  tell  the  truth, 
again  on  the  verge  of  vexed  and  futile  remonstrance 
when,  instinctively  obedient  to  Mahomet,  she  sat 
down. 

As  she  dropped  into  the  chair  Kitty's  rosy  face 
grew  serious— she  had  a  faint  gleam  of  enlighten- 
ment as  she  said : 

"Are  you  resorting  to  Mahomet's  remedy?" 

Mary  laughed. 

"I?  No!"  It  was  hardly  true.  "What  else  is 
there,  dear?" 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,  you  would  like  her.  Oh, 
you  will  be  sure  to  like  her.  Mr.  Masters  knows 
her;  he  says  she  has  charm—" 

"He  says  that  about  everything  that  wears  a  pet- 
ticoat," said  Mary,  resolute  to  control  any  sign  of 
impatience.  "But  whom  are  you  talking  about, 
Kitty?" 

"I  told  you,  Mary— Mrs.  Hunter.  She  is  so  gen- 
tle, so  wise,  so  learned,  and  she  carries  her  know- 
ledge so  lightly —  Here  Mary  recognized  a  phrase 
which  Mr.  Knellwood  had  with  justice  applied  to 
Margaret  Swanwick. 

"But  I  must  go,  and  I  know  you  are  tired  of  me. 
I  really  had  to  tell  you." 

' '  I  tired  of  you,  my  dear  Kit  ?  You  must  not  say 
such  things—" 


CIRCUMSTANCE  17 

"But  you  are  tired  of  me,"  repeated  the  girl,  with 
dull  persistency;  "and  yet,  Mrs.  Hunter  is  so  like 
you— in  some  ways,  I  mean— that—  " 

"Then  I  shall  surely  hate  her,"  exclaimed  Mary, 
laughing. 

"Oh,  no!  You  must  like  her  for  my  sake;  and 
now,  we  will  leave  the  rest  until  to-morrow.  Don't 
look  so  resigned." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Fairthorne,  "I  have 
some  right  to  be  tired  to-day,  but  I  am  not  tired 
of  you,  only  of  these  numberless  people  who  interest 
/  you  and  do  not  in  the  least  interest  me. ' ' 

"There  is  nothing  human  that  should  fail  to  in- 
terest us,  Mary;  we  are  all  the  children  of  one 
Father." 

"Vide  somebody,"  thought  Mary.  A  touch  of 
the  comic  always  cured  her  mild  attacks  of  impa- 
tience and  the  young  cause  was  pretty  sure,  soon 
or  late,  to  supply  the  remedy.  She  was  a  trifle  dis- 
appointed that  Kitty  had  not  answered  her  crossly. 
It  would  have  seemed  to  excuse  her  own  brief  failure 
of  temper. 

Kitty's  weaknesses  appealed  to  the  stronger  girl, 
who  had  an  unusual  charity  for  moral  defects  and 
who  found  in  her  cousin  what  everyone  found— the 
attractiveness  which  childlike  and  too  natural  women 
possess.  Despite  nearness  of  years,  Mary  Fair- 
thorne was  more  mother  than  cousin  to  this  self- 
^  spoiled,  unstable  beauty,  who  was  now  pouting  a 
little,  and  feeling,  as  she  was  apt  to  say,  that  she 
was  not  sufficiently  considered.  Turning  again  to 
go,  she  said : 


18  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  suppose  you  very  superior  people  think  me 
foolish.  Mrs.  Hunter  says  I  have  an  analytic 
mind." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mary  Fairthorne;  "you  have 
many,  many  gifts,  dear,  but — 

"Oh,  don't  scold  me!"  cried  Kitty.  "I  do  not 
mind  Margaret,  but  I  do  love  you,  and  when  you 
lecture  me,  I — I  am  getting  to  be  too  old  to  be  lec- 
tured by  the  entire  family.  Kiss  me,  and  don't 
scold. ' '  She  was  herself  demonstrative  in  her  affec- 
tion, and  was  prone  to  take  as  evidence  of  want  of 
J-  it  her  cousin's  disinclination  to  physical  expres- 
sions of  a  very  real  attachment.  It  was  real,  but 
>  the  nobler  woman  would  have  found  it  hard  to  ex- 
plain why  she  liked  this  girl.  Few  of  us  can  suffi- 
J  ciently  analyze  many  of  our  attachments,  perhaps 
because  they  are  attachments,  the  offspring  of  habit, 
propinquity,  and  the  claims  which  weakness  makes 
on  the  higher  nature. 

Kitty  had  that  surface  amiability  which  is  a 
little  uncertain  and  very  far  from  the  self-sacri- 
ficing heroism  of  really  good  temper. 

"You  shall  tell  me  all  about  Mrs.  Hunter,  dear, 
another  time, ' '  said  Mary ;  "  it  is  I  who  was  foolish. ' ' 
She  did  not  say  how  or  why.  Rising,  she  kissed  the 
girl  tenderly. 

"I  think  I  hear  Uncle  John." 

"Then  I  must  run;  I  shall  go  down  the  back-stair. 
He  has  been  at  me  all  day— my  first  day  at  home- 
to  arrange  those  new  autographs,  such  stupid,  tire- 
some trash." 

"Run,  dear,"  cried  Mary,  laughing,  and,  gather- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  19 

ing  her  skirts,  Kitty  fled  as  ordered.  This  sort  of 
mild  vexation  was  a  more  frequent  thing  in  her  life 
than  Mary  Fairthorne  liked.  While  outspoken  anger 
was  rare  with  her  and  like  a  storm  in  its  physi- 
cal and  moral  consequences,  her  daily  encounters 
with  two  antagonistic  and  unsympathetic  natures 
merely  resulted  in  irritation  and  never  disturbed 
^er  long.  She  looked  up  at  the  clock,  closed  and 
locked  her  diary,  and  sat  down  to  resolute  work  on 
the  task  from  which  Kitty  had  fled. 

The  table  at  which  she  seated  herself  was  of  un- 
usual size,  and  was  nearly  covered  with  portfolios, 
each  carefully  labelled  and  numbered.  She  laid 
aside  one  after  another,  lingering  with  interest  over 
the  labels  and  contents.  At  last  she  found  the  one 
she  was  looking  for;  on  it  lay  a  sheet  of  note-paper 
upon  which  was  written,  "Arrange  chronologically, 
J.  F."  They  were  letters  of  Lord  Byron,  a  dozen 
or  more,  some  to  women,  an  angry  missive  to  Lord 
Carlisle,  etc.  As  she  ended  her  simple  task,  she  said 
to  herself: 

"He  needed  a  woman  friend  who  was  not  in  love 
with  him.  He  must  have  been  interesting.  I  should 
like  to  have  known  him.  I  suppose  there  never  was 
a  thoughtful  woman  who  has  read  his  letters  who 
did  not  wish  she  had  known  him."  As  she  closed 
the  portfolio,  and  wrote  under  the  label,  "Arranged 
in  order  of  years, ' '  she  heard  a  step,  and,  rising,  said : 

"I  hope  you  are  feeling  better,  Uncle  John." 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  hope  you  have  been  careful  as  to  those 
dates." 


20  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  have  been  so,"  she  returned.  "Is  there  any- 
thing else,  sir?" 

" Where  is  Kitty?  I  have  had  no  account  of  her 
expenditures  while  she  was  away.  She  is  very  care- 
less. Send  her  here." 

"She  has  gone  to  Margaret  Swan  wick's." 

"She  ought  to  have  been  here;  I  told  her  to  be 
here." 

Mary  made  no  reply,  and  he  added : 

"I  am  constantly  neglected.  I  shall  have  to  hire 
a  secretary,  and  that  with  two  idle  girls  in  the 
house."  Again  receiving  no  answer  from  the  tall 
girl,  who  stood  beside  his  chair,  he  said: 

"Why  the  devil  don't  you  say  something?" 

"I  should  only  have  to  repeat,  sir,  what  I  say 
every  day." 

He  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  asked  again  to  have 
Kitty  sent  to  him,  and  again  his  niece  said : 

"She  is  out.  I  think  I  mentioned  that  she  has 
gone  to  see  Madge." 

"I  suppose,"  he  replied,  "that  you  think  I  am 
losing  my  memory. ' ' 

"Hardly,  uncle;  it  is  altogether  too  good."  It 
was  for  all  causes  of  irritation,  but  for  other  matters 
it  had  become,  of  late,  irregularly  uncertain.  He 
was  a  slowly  failing  old  man. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that  will  do  just  now.  See  if 
this  account  be  correct,  Write  to  Mr.  Pilgrim  that 
I  should  like,  at  his  leisure,  to  talk  to  him  about  the 
Kanawha  coal  lands.  Ask  when  he  will  be  in  the 
city.  I  shall  dine  in  my  room,  Mary.  I  am  going 
to  lie  down  now.  As  to  Kitty—  Oh,  I  forgot! 


CIECUMSTANCE  21 

Damn  everything!  One  ought  to  be  shot  at  forty- 
five—no,  at  fifty."  And  so  concluding,  he  left  her 
to  her  toil  over  a  complicated  account.  As  he  went 
out,  he  turned. 

"Who  the  deuce  is  this  Mrs.  Hunter  Kitty  is  rav- 
ing about?  Hunter?  Hunter?  A  good  name  in 
Virginia  and  Rhode  Island."  The  old  man's  mem- 
ory for  genealogical  details  was  remarkable  and  at 
times  perilously  competent. 

"I  do  not  know,"  returned  Mary.  "Kitty  has 
many  sudden  enthusiasms  about  people.  They  do 
not  last  long." 

"You  would  be  better  for  a  few,"  he  said  sharply, 
and  so  left  her. 

"Now  I  wonder  if  that  be  true,"  thought  Mary 
Fairthorne,  as  she  turned  to  her  task.  "No,  it  is 
not  true.  Kitty's  accounts!  He  will  never  see 
them,  or  I  am  much  mistaken."  After  very  care- 
fully revising  her  arithmetical  results,  she  wrote 
"Correct"  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  pinned  it  to  the 
account. 

Next  she  took  a  fresh  sheet,  and  began  to  write  to 
Mr.  Pilgrim,  but,  perceiving  that  the  paper  bore  her 
own  monogram,  she  tore  it  up,  took  a  sheet  from  the 
other  table,  and,  after  a  few  moments  of  reflection, 
wrote  to  the  rising  engineer  a  very  formal  letter 
with  the  signature,  "John  Fairthorne,  per  M.  F." 


Ill 


the  year  1682  John  Fairthorne,  the 
youngest  son  of  a  small  squire  of  County 
Essex,  emigrated  to  Pennsylvania.  The 
Fairthornes  had  lived  and  died  among 
their  turnips  in  tranquil  decency,  with 
no  distinguishing  excess  of  vices  or  virtues.  They 
were  small  gentlefolk  and  contented,  neither  rising 
nor  falling  in  the  social  scale.  The  younger  sons 
were,  by  custom  and  of  necessity,  tumbled  out  of  the 
home  nest  and  disposed  of  in  the  army  or  navy  or, 
more  rarely,  in  business.  Generally  they  did  well, 
but  no  Fairthorne  was  ever  spoken  of  as  a  man  of 
distinction.  The  women  had  notable  beauty,  and  the 
race  was  tall  and  sturdy. 

John  Fairthorne,  the  emigrant,  was  a  serious 
youth,  and  pleased  Mr.  Penn,  the  proprietary,  al- 
though he  never  gave  up  the  Church  of  England. 
He  had  of  Penn,  for  one  hundred  pounds,  five  thou- 
sand acres  in  and  about  the  Welsh  barony  in  Chester 
County,  then  by  no  means  so  important  or  valuable 
a  possession  as  it  looks  to  the  modern  view.  Fair- 
thorne soon  sold  his  land,  became  a  trader  in  furs, 
and  by  and  by  had  coasters  and  trafficked  with  the 
other  colonies.  He  became  rich,  and  had  sons  and 
daughters.  In  their  new  environment,  that  hap- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  23 

pened  to  the  Fairthornes  which  happened  to  many 
children  of  English  race  whose  people  had  made  no 
mark  in  the  older  land. 

From  the  time  John  Fairthorne  landed  in  Penn- 
sylvania the  Fairthornes  became  and  remained  peo- 
ple of  signal  importance.  In  every  generation  some 
one  of  them  rose  to  distinctive  place.  They  had  a 
hand  in  every  war  and  in  time  of  peace  won  suc- 
cess at  the  bar  or  in  the  ventures  of  East  Indian 
commerce.  They  were  notably  few  in  number,  long 
livers,  and  well-built,  handsome  folk.  Calmly  as- 
sured of  their  own  position,  they  were  generally  sen- 
sitive as  to  familiar  approach,  and  had  been,  per- 
haps because  of  a  certain  gravity  and  good  sense, 
fortunate  in  their  marriages.  In  early  colonial 
days  they  were  of  Penn's  council.  Later  they  be- 
came rebellious  subjects  of  the  crown;  still  later, 
stanch  Federalists,  and  when  the  great  Civil  War 
broke  out  they  were  sturdy  republicans.  John  and 
Mary  were  favored  names  among  them,  but  no  one 
of  them  was  ever  known  as  Jack  or  Molly. 

John,  the  eldest  of  the  few  Fairthornes  left  in 
Pennsylvania— for  they  had  scattered  widely — was 
a  man  who  had  added  largely  to  inherited  wealth. 
This  John  married,  when  young,  a  wife  who,  dying, 
left  him  childless.  As  sometimes  chances,  one  of  the 
minor  qualities  of  a  strong  breed  rose  in  his  case 
into  disabling  power,  so  that,  as  life  went  on,  his 
dislike  of  democratic  familiarities  and  close  contacts 
with  men  gradually  caused  his  withdrawal  from  all 
forms  of  public  usefulness.  He  became  a  self-cen- 
tered man,  uselessly  learned,  and  with  a  fondness 


24  CIRCUMSTANCE 

for  rare  books  and  autographs.  He  had,  too,  in  an 
extreme  degree  the  liking  for  method  which  all  his 
people  possessed.  By  descent  and  training  a  very 
courteous  and  formal  man  to  those  he  did  not  know 
well,  he  was  too  often  otherwise  in  his  own  home. 
Nature,  latent  gout,  and  having  outlived  the  time 
of  balanced  faculties  made  him  irritable  and  exact- 
ing, even  to  those  he  loved  the  best,  or,  perhaps  I 
should  say  liked  the  best.  He  had  preferences,  but 
lacked  affections.  He  had  been  left  the  guardian 
of  the  persons  and  moderate  estates  of  the  orphan 
children  of  a  brother  and  sister;  Mary  represented 
the  finer  qualities  of  his  race  and  was  a  woman  of 
wide  intellectual  and  human  sympathies,  while  her 
uncle's  were  languid  or  had  dwindled,  owing  to  the 
atrophy  of  disuse.  Kitty,  despite  her  lightness,  was 
apparently  the  person  he  came  most  near  to  loving, 
but  she  had  not  her  cousin's  power  to  influence  his 
decisions.  He  was  now  beginning  to  feel  the  depen- 
dency of  breaking  health  and  was  bitterly  resenting 
it.  As  to  what  else  he  was,  or  became,  this  story 
may  show. 

The  house  which  Kitty  entered  to  visit  her  cousins, 
the  Swanwicks,  was  far  away  from  that  Fourth 
Street  neighborhood,  which  fashion  was  slowly  giv- 
ing up  to  commerce  and  finance.  It  was  not  large, 
and  was  built  in  a  way  peculiar  to  the  city,  with 
back  buildings  which  left  room  for  side-light  and 
some  space  for  the  garden  area  behind  it. 

Kitty,  who  knew  well  her  cousin  Margaret's  dis- 
like to  being  pursued  up-stairs,  sat  down  in  the  par- 
lor and  looked  about  her.  The  room  was  too  severely 


CIRCUMSTANCE  25 

furnished  with  inherited  claw-toed  tables  and 
straight-backed  chairs  to  suit  Miss  Morrow's  views, 
and  indeed  an  antique  disregard  for  comfort  was  in 
every  line  of  the  inhospitable  seats.  A  few  impor- 
tant pieces  of  old  Dresden  and  two  portraits  by 
Sully  in  his  rather  thin  manner,  were  all  that  there 
was  to  relieve  the  hardness  of  the  furnishings;  and 
yet  the  room  had  an  air  of  distinction,  and  there  was 
no  lack  of  taste  in  curtain,  carpet,  or  wall-paper. 
Several  miniatures  stood  on  the  mantel.  Its  cool, 
gray  marble  and  the  brass  fender  and  firedogs, 
aglow  with  the  light  of  a  hickory-wood  fire,  gave  to 
the  room  a  look  of  being  in  habitual  use.  Kitty 
looked  about  her  with  critical  comment,  disliking  the 
old-fashioned  furniture. 

But  nothing  pleased  or  displeased  her  very  long. 
As  she  rose  at  the  sound  of  coming  steps,  a  slightly 
built,  rather  small  woman  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
She  wore  a  simple  gray  linen  gown  and  carried  a 
basket  of  keys. 

''Oh,  you  dear  thing,"  cried  Kitty,  kissing  her 
again  and  again. 

The  older  woman  submitted  to  Kitty's  caresses 
with  faint  internal  protest,  and  then,  holding  her 
off,  said: 

''How  pretty  you  are,  dear.  Oh,  if  I  were  a  man 
I  should-" 

"Marry  me?" 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that, ' '  said  Mrs.  Swanwick : 
"certainly  I  should  make  love  to  you.  What  a  fine 
gown ! ' ' 

"I  have  come  for  a  good  long  talk,"  said  Kitty. 


26  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  ran  away  when  Uncle  John  came  in,  and  I  have 
so  many  things  to  tell  you.  Imagine  it,  he  wanted 
to  see  my  accounts. ' ' 

"Is  it  so,  dear?"  said  Margaret,  as  if  it  were 
a  novelty.  "But  not  to-day,  dear;  I  cannot  talk  to 
you  now.  Harry  has  some  men  to  dine,  and  I  am 
busy. ' '  It  was  true,  but,  besides  this,  Margaret  well 
knew  that  Kitty's  desire  to  pour  out  her  flow  of  dis- 
connected social  items  would  lessen  after  she  had 
sufficiently  repeated  them  to  others.  Margaret,  who 
had  an  orderly  and  trained  mind,  hated  few  things 
so  much  as  Kitty's  mild  flow  of  gossip. 

"I  think,"  she  once  said,  "that  I  could  stand  it 
better  if  it  were  even  a  bit  wicked;  but  Kitty  is 
good  because  she  is  not  bad. ' '  Margaret  was  herself 
valuably  and  variously  sweet  tempered.  Seeing 
Kitty's  look  of  disappointment,  she  said: 

"Come  up  to  the  library  and  see  Harry.  If  I 
let  you  go  without  seeing  him  I  shall  hear  of  it. 
How  is  Mary?  I  have  not  seen  her  for  nearly  a 
week." 

Miss  Kitty  said  that  Mary  was  quite  useless  as 
sister  or  cousin ;  that  between  Uncle  John  and  chari- 
ties and  this  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  her  to 
listen  to  the  most  serious  things. 

"Such  as—  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Swanwick,  demurely. 

"Oh,  last  night,  about  a  question  of  dogma.  Mr. 
Knell  wood  wrote  to  me — you  see,  I  had  asked  him 
about  it  before  I  went  away." 

' '  Dogma ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Swanwick,  vastly  amused. 
Miss  Kitty  assumed  an  air  of  gravity  and  related  at 
length  that  the  question  of  dogma  concerned  the 


v/ 

CIRCUMSTANCE  27 

proper  material  for  candles  to  be  used  on  the  altar. 
Mrs.  Swanwick  was  not  rash  enough  to  inquire  if 
she  had  put  the  question  to  her  rector  in  this  shape ; 
she  imagined  her  sister  Mary's  amusement,  and  since 
she  was  wise  enough  to  know  her  cousin  for  one  of 
the  many  daughters  of  Sir  Forcible  Feeble,  she 
wasted  no  mental  ammunition  in  intellectual  con- 
tests with  Kitty.  Not  listening  to  Kitty,  who  fol- 
lowed her,  she  went  along  the  hall  thinking  of  what 
the  girl  would  be  at  forty  and  only  recovered  con- 
sciousness of  what  Kitty  was  saying  when  she  asked 
about  the  children.  She  had  toys  for  them,  and 
might  she  not  return  to  dine?  Margaret  said  no, 
that  it  was  a  man's  dinner,  a  lot  of  old  army  com- 
rades; nothing  but  war  talk;  she  herself  would  be 
the  only  woman,  and  her  table  was  full.  Kitty, 
laughing,  declared  that  she  would  come  and  sit  at  a 
side  table,  and  who  could  she  have  with  her  ?  Then, 
feeling  that  she  had  been  very  witty,  she  asked  if 
Margaret  had  any  errands  down-town.  As  she  lin- 
gered on  the  stair,  a  masculine  voice  called  out,  as 
its  owner  descended : 

' '  Halloa !  Kitty  Sunshine !  Why  did  n  't  you  call 
me,  Margaret?"  His  wife  made  no  reply.  ''Come 
up-stairs, "  he  said. 

They  went  up  to  the  second  story  of  the  back 
building. 

"I  like  this  better,"  said  Miss  Morrow.  "I  hate 
your  parlor. ' ' 

The  room  was  full  of  books ;  on  one  wall  were  law 
reports  and  treatises,  on  the  other  all  manner  of 
books.  A  half  dozen  good  prints  filled  the  vacant 


28  CIRCUMSTANCE 

spaces  on  the  walls ;  a  single  small  spring  landscape 
by  Iimess  hung  over  the  mantel,  and  beneath  it  a 
cavalry  saber.  Below  the  windows  were  two  very 
business-like  tables. 

Harry  Swanwick  picked  up  his  still  lighted  pipe 
from  the  pile  of  leather-clad  law-books. 

"Well,  Kitty,  what  is  the  news?  Tom  Masters 
told  me  you  had  returned.  He  says  you  have  a  new 
idol.  I  thought  he  was  himself  pretty  well  cap- 
tured. ' ' 

"Oh,  that  is  an  old  affair,"  said  Miss  Kitty. 

"Bother!  I  don't  mean  you.  Tom  is  a  lot  too 
good  for  you,  or  any  woman  except  one  who  is  un- 
attainable. Tom  was  radiating  praise,  the  material 
for  which  he  seemed  to  have  absorbed  at  Newport." 

"She  is  certainly  worthy  of  it,"  said  Miss  Mor- 
row, with  emphasis  of  the  nodded  head ;  "a  most 
remarkable  woman,  Harry;  really,  a  woman  with 
that  rare  quality  of  charm  it  is  so  impossible  to  de- 
fine." Margaret  cast  a  look  of  quickly  controlled 
mirth  at  her  husband,  who  knew  better  than  to  be- 
tray his  own  sense  of  amusement. 

"Who  the  deuce  is  your  charmer,  Kit?" 

"Mrs.  Hunter, ' '  said  Kitty.     ' ' Lucretia  Hunter. ' ' 

"Did  she  ask  you  to  call  her  Lucretia?"  said  Mar- 
garet, with  one  of  those  too  efficient  glimpses  of  in- 
sight which,  except  for  her  husband,  she  rarely  put 
in  words,  but  with  which  she  sometimes  surprised 
people. 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  said  Kitty,  a  trifle 
sharply. 

"I  did  not  know,  I  guessed,"  laughed  her  cousin. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  29 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Harry. 

"Now  that  is  just  the  kind  of  thing,"  said  Kitty, 
with  severity,  "which  makes  people  in  New  York 
say  we  are  provincial." 

"Well,  Kit,"  he  returned,  "we  still  have  quality 
and  distinctiveness,  a  civic  soul,  if  that  is  to  be  pro- 
vincial. ' ' 

"I  do  not  think  I  understand  you,  Harry.  Mary 
and  you  are  so  vague  sometimes." 

"Mary  vague!"  cried  Mr.  Swanwick.  "Good 
heavens !  But  really,  my  dear  Kit,  what  with  you 
and  Tom  I  am  becoming  curious.  Is  she  hand- 
some ? ' ' 

"Ye-es,"  said  Kitty. 

"The  witness  seems  in  doubt,"  said  Margaret. 

"Oh,  but  she  is,"  cried  Kitty;  "and  so  intel- 
lectual—" 

"A  widow?"  asked  Swanwick. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,  and  she  has  had  so  much  sor- 
row in  her  life." 

"Did  you  see  her  often?"  asked  Margaret. 

"Often?  Yes,  ever  so  often — at  Newport.  She 
was  staying  with  the  Wenhams.  They  met  her  in 
Europe— and  then  she  was  on  the  boat  with  us. 
They  adore  her.  You  will  see  her.  She  is  coming 
here  soon.  Bless  me,  what  time  is  it?  I  forgot  to 
wind  my  watch.  Not  after  five!  Really!  I  must 
go." 


IV 


[HEN  husband  and  wife  were  left  alone 
together   in    the    library    they    gladly 
shared  in  common,  Margaret  took  up  a 
freshly  arrived  number  of  Dickens 's 
last  book  and,  seated  beside  the  smol- 
dering wood  fire,  continued  to  talk  as  she  cut  the 
leaves  with  careful  respect  for  neatness.     Presently 
she  said  to  her  husband,  who  was  at  his  own  table : 
"Are  you  busy,  Harry?" 
"I— not  if  you  want  anything,  Madge." 
"Do  you  know  what  day  it  is?" 
' '  Do  I,  indeed  ?    Do  you,  Madge  ? ' ' 
"Yes.     It  reminds  me  of  how  young  and  foolish 
I  was." 

"And  me  of  how  clever  I  was  to  get  my  head  in 
the  way  of  a  saber,  in  order  to  decide  what  answer 
I  should  get  to  a  letter.  It  was  rash,  but  it  won 
the  trick." 

As  he  turned  from  his  table  she  smiled,  and  met 
his  seeking  blue  eyes  with  a  look  which  somehow 
made  a  smile  interpret  love,  respect,  and  thank- 


In  1862,  at  the  close  of  a  short  leave,  Captain 
Swanwick  had  returned  to  the  Sixth  Pennsylvania 


CIRCUMSTANCE  31 

Cavalry  just  in  time  to  stop  a  revolver  bullet  and  to 
receive  a  saber  cut  from  a  South  Carolina  gentleman 
in  the  gallant  mellay  known  as  the  fight  at  Brandy 
Station.  Two  days  later,  a  young  girl  in  Philadel- 
phia, anxiously  reading  the  list  of  killed,  wounded, 
and  missing,  looked  up  and  said  faintly: 

"Mother!  Harry  Swanwick  is  wounded — mor- 
tally. I  must  go  to  him  at  once— at  once." 

Mrs.  Fairthorne,  who  was  one  of  the  Maryland 
Grays,  and  as  brave  as  the  rest  of  them,  said: 

"You  were  in  doubt,  dear,  yesterday." 

"I  was — now  I  am  not." 

Then  the  mother,  being  wise  enough  never  to  be- 
lieve a  newspaper  until  it  had  said  the  same  thing 
for  three  days,  said :  ' '  You  must  stay  at  home.  We 
do  not  do  that  kind  of  thing.  I  will  go.  If  he  is 
to  die  I  will  wire  you  to  come." 

The  young  woman,  who  was  very  white  and  long- 
ing to  scream  with  the  pain  of  it,  said  quietly: 

"Yes,  but  go  soon — at  once!  I  will  write  a  letter 
for  him  if  he  be  able  to  read  it." 

Captain  Swanwick  was  very  ill  when  Mrs.  Fair- 
thorne came  down  to  the  hospital  camp  at  Flour- 
town,  and,  acting  on  the  advice  of  the  young  sur- 
geon, Sydney  Archer,  ventured  to  carry  North  a 
man  in  deadly  peril.  He  was  put  in  the  officers' 
hospital  in  Camac's  woods,  and,  slowly  mending, 
found  that  for  him  active  service  was  over. 

The  day  he  read  Miss  Margaret  Fairthorne 's  letter 
had  been  ever  since  kept  by  them  as  an  anniversary 
of  which  they  spoke  to  no  one.  Now  he  said : 

"It  was  ten  minutes  to  nine  when  I  read  it.     If 


32  CIRCUMSTANCE 

you  can't  wait,  Madge,  even  that  long,  go  down  to 
the  parlor,  and  under  the  big  Dresden  bowl — " 

Before  he  could  finish  she  was  out  of  the  room 
and  on  the  stair.  Moods  of  childlike  joy  and  gaiety 
were  a  part  of  the  pleasantness  of  this  woman,  who 
had  also  the  grave  good  sense  of  the  Fairthornes, 
with  more  sentiment,  wit,  intellect,  and  definiteness 
of  mind  than  ever  a  one  of  the  breed  since  John,  the 
first,  sat  in  the  house  cave  he  had  dug  on  the  banks 
of  the  Delaware.  Unlike  the  rest  of  her  race,  she 
was  slight  and  small. 

f  Mr.  Swanwick  was  invalided,  unfit  for  war  and, 
after  declining  a  brevet  as  he  had  before  refused 
promotion,  he  married  this  Margaret  Fairthorne,  the 
much  elder  sister  of  Mary.  She  nursed  him  into 
sound  health,  and  in  the  two  years  it  required,  as  he 
meant  to  go  to  the  bar,  she  began  to  read  law-books 
to  him.  She  soon  found  satisfaction  in  the  lofty 
reason  and  equity  on  which  the  great  structure  has 
risen.  She  enjoyed  the  accuracy  of  it,  of  what  she 
startled  Harry  one  day  by  calling  the  mathematics 
of  right  and  wrong.  When,  at  last,  he  could  use 
his  eyes  and  task  his  head,  she  quietly  let  the  study 
drop,  and  for  wise  reasons  of  her  own  made  believe 
to  have  quite  forgotten  Kent  and  Blackstone.  It 
was  a  sacrifice  firmly  made.  She  had  readily  assimi- 
lated the  law,  and  surprised  herself  by  the  ability 
with  which  she  anticipated  the  judgments  and  deci- 
sions of  great  jurists,  as  she  and  her  husband  read 
and  talked.  About  the  time  that  she  began  to  sus- 
pect she  possessed  a  better  legal  mind  than  Harry 
Swanwick  he  had  regained  his  usual  vigorous  health. 


CIECUMSTANCE  33 

He  was  straightforward,  upright,  industrious,  and 
of  good  sense  and  fair  intelligence.  The  wife  was 
of  ampler  mind.  A  great  affection  united  them. 
/  At  times  he  had  had,  ever  since  his  wound,  severe  ^ 
//  headaches,  when  he  was  apt  to  be  irritable  and  hasty. 
As  years  went  on  his  and  her  connections  and  the 
deaths  of  middle-aged  seniors  at  the  bar,  pushed  him 
forward.  Men  liked  this  courteous  gentleman,  and 
they  prospered.  How  much  the  woman  was  or  stood 
for  in  the  partnership  she  hid  even  from  him,  mag- 
nanimous as  only  love  can  be.  Perhaps  he  knew, 
better  than  she  thought,  the  largeness  of  the  mental 
and  moral  capital  thus  lovingly  invested.  Only  a 
masculine  mind  so  great  as  not  to  have  needed  her 
help  could  have  fully  seen  and  thanked  it,  and  yet— 
he  listened. 

She  came  back,  swift  and  graceful,  holding  up  the 
hand  on  which  a  ruby  shone,  and  crying: 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Harry!  What  an  extrava- 
gance ! ' '  and,  leaning  over  as  he  sat,  she  kissed  the 
red  scar  which  crossed  cheek  and  temple.  There 
was  some  pretty,  tender  talk,  which  I  shall  not  re- 
port, and  at  last  she  said : 

"Did  you  ask  Dr.  Archer  to  come  in  and  see  my 
Jack?" 

' '  Yes,  he  dines  here.  I  asked  him  to  replace  Wes- 
ton,  but  he  will  come  in  before  dinner.  I  had  a 
little  talk  with  him  about  your  Uncle  John." 

"Well,  Harry?" 

\s  "He  thinks  that  he  is  breaking  up,  not  here  or 
there,  in  any  one  organ,  but  a  general — well,  what 
he  described  as  a  slackening  of  all  the  complicated 

3 


34  CIRCUMSTANCE 

gearing  of  mind  and  body;  perhaps,  too,  a  weak 
heart." 

"How  like  him,  Harry.  How  fond  he  is  of  illus- 
tration! I  wish  he  cared  for  Mary  rather  than  for 
Kitty.  But  ten  men— oh,  of  the  best  of  you!— 
would  ask  for  Kitty,  where  one  would  ask  for 
Mary." 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said,  laughing,  "that  I  am  not 
of  the  best." 

"Foolish  fellow!  Come  and  see  the  children— 
and,  oh!  You  were  interrupted  last  night — what 
did  you  conclude  as  to  the  Stoneville  railroad? 
Shall  you  ask  to  have  a  receiver  appointed?" 

"We  have  not  decided.  The  Republic  Trust  Com- 
pany— I  mean  its  officers— are  in  doubt.  They  hold 
largely  for  themselves  and  others  of  its  securities— 
bonds,  of  course." 

"Was  it  you,  Harry,  who  thought  it  might  be  best 
to  wait  until  the  eastward  movement  of  grain,  and 
see  if  the  bonds  would  be  lifted  in  value?" 

"And  then  get  rid  of  them,  Madge.  Receiver- 
ships are  disastrous.  I  did  not  say  that,  or  did  I? 
I  will  think  it  over — " 

"Is  n't  that  trust  company  paying  unusual  divi- 
dends?" 

"Yes,  dear;  too  large,  I  think.  I  sold  all  our 
stock  when  we  bought  our  house.  Mr.  Fairthorne 
must  be  a  heavy  owner  of  its  stock;  but,  really,  I 
know  little  of  their  condition;  I  am  only  their 
counsel,  and  not  always  consulted — as  I  should 
be." 

"Indeed!"  she  said,  and  went  with  him  up-stairs 


CIRCUMSTANCE  36 

to  the  nursery,  thoughtful.  Jack  was  riding  to  bat- 
tle on  a  chair,  and  Retta,  which  was  short  for  Mar- 
garet, was,  from  the  dignity  of  four-year-old  mater- 
nity, entreating  Jack  not  to  wake  the  baby — a  large 
rag-doll,  preferred  before  a  family  of  dolls  lovely 
and  accomplished. 


I  HE  October  days  went  by,  and  the 
leaves,  drifting  down,  marked  like  the 
sands  in  an  hour-glass  the  failing 
hours  of  autumn.  Kitty,  who  pro- 
fessed to  feel,  and  perhaps  did  feel,  the 
gentle  sadness  of  the  fall,  kept  up  a  voluminous  cor- 
respondence with  Mrs.  Hunter.  She  was  fond  of 
letter-writing,  and  wrote  in  brief  childlike  sentences, 
which,  however,  gave  her  new  friend,  by  degrees, 
and  in  answer  to  her  guarded  questions,  all  that  she 
desired  to  learn  of  Kitty's  relatives  and  their  sur- 
roundings. 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  found  a  room  at  the  top  of  an 
unfashionable  hotel  in  New  York,  and  now,  as  she 
stood  with  a  letter  of  Kitty's  in  her  hand,  she  looked 
at  the  soiled  carpet,  the  not  over-clean  furniture, 
and  the  whitewashed  wall,  dotted  with  red  splotches 
where  uneasy  lodgers  in  the  past  had  revenged  them- 
selves on  the  gorged  mosquito.  Mrs.  Hunter  was  a 
lover  of  luxury,  and  herself  neat  by  nature.  The 
room  smelled  musty.  She  lifted  a  sash  and  let  in 
the  cool  evening  air. 

Thinking  to  find  from  Kitty's  letter  what  day  it 
was,  she  turned  to  the  first  page.  Kitty  had  forgot- 
ten to  date  it,  a  not  rare  omission  on  her  part.  She 


CIRCUMSTANCE  37 

wrote  "private"  at  the  top  of  all  of  her  letters,  even 
the  most  trivial  notes,  and  sacredly  guarded  them 
by  a  fold  of  white  paper  from  inquisitive  eyes.  She 
wrote : 

"DEAR  LTTCRETIA  :  I  have  just  been  arranging,  for  my  uncle, 
some  letters  of  my  great-grandfather." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  stopped  to 
make  a  memorandum  in  a  note-book,  "Mem.  Jn.  F., 
member  Constitutional  Convention  of  1787 — to  read 
of  him— mem.  autographs?"  Then  she  returned  to 
the  letter : 

"  Mary  does  not  approve  of  my  writing  to  you.  I  do  not 
know  why.  I  am  the  best  judge.  I  have  bought  the  sweet- 
est little  ring  for  you.  I  know  Mary  would  not  like  this,  but 
it  is  because  she  does  not  know  you.  "When  she  does,  I  shall 
be  jealous.  I  hope  you  will  never  speak  of  the  ring.  My  uncle 
insists  on  seeing  my  accounts  every  month.  I  do  not  believe 
he  goes  over  them.  This  time  I  could  not  find  them.  I  sup- 
pose when  I  go  to  confession  I  must  tell.  That  is  another 
thing  about  which  Mary  and  I  differ.  I  go  to  St.  Agnes's  and 
she  likes  that  stuffy  old  Christ  Church.  The  seats  are  very 
uncomfortable.  How  can  anyone  attend  to  her  soul  if  the 
pews  are  uncomfortable  f  " 

' '  How,  indeed  ? ' '  thought  Mrs.  Hunter. 

"What  you  say  about  self-discipline  is  so  true.  I  asked 
Uncle  John  about  the  book  you  spoke  of— I  mean  'Feuehter- 
sleben's  Psychology  of  the  Soul'  (I  don't  believe  I  spell  it 
right).  He  has  read  everything.  He  said  it  was  pretentious 
and  commonplace.  That  seems  strange!  Mr.  Knellwood  said 
he  had  read  it,  but  that  he  could  not  as  a  churchman  recom- 
mend it." 


38  CIRCUMSTANCE 

' '  I  shall  be  on  thin  ice, ' '  murmured  Mrs.  Hunter, 
who  had  once  read  a  review  of  the  book. 

"  I  hope  you  will  soon  come.  When  I  told  Uncle  John  that 
you  were  interested  in  autographs,  he  said  I  must  get  him  to 
show  you  his  collection.  It  is  very  large. " 

Mrs.  Hunter  smiled  as  she  sat  in  her  small  room 
at  the  top  of  the  dingy  hotel,  and  slowly  refolded 
Kitty's  letter. 

She  said  to  herself:  "I  do  not  yet  get  at  the  love 
affairs  of  this  tall  Mary  Fairthorne."  As  to  these 
Miss  Morrow  was  decently  reticent,  and  would  not, 
as  yet,  have  easily  betrayed  any  knowledge  she  might 
have  possessed.  She  had  her  suspicions,  but  when 
once  she  had  flippantly  intruded  on  this  ground 
she  had  been  warned  off  as  a  trespasser  in  a  manner 
which  left  an  impression  as  permanent  as  it  was 
possible  to  make  on  a  nature  so  briefly  sensitive. 

Mrs.  Hunter  wrote  in  reply: 

"  DEAREST  KATHERINE  :  It  is  years  since  I  read  Feuchtersle- 
ben,  but  I  know  it  well.  It  was  in  a  day  of  sorrow.  Whether 
as  a  whole  I  should  like  it  now,  I  do  not  know ;  but  I  feel,  and 
shall  always  feel,  that  I  can  trust  your  judgment  to  assimilate 
what  is  best.  Perhaps  I  might  even  more  readily  accept,  as  a 
good  churchwoman,  Mr.  Knellwood's  opinion,  and  may  some- 
time be  able  to  discuss  it  with  him. 

"  In  regard  to  confession— of  which  you  speak  so  often  with 
the  innocent  sweetness  of  a  pure  soul— I  have  always  had  but 
one  opinion.  To  you,  were  it  kind  to  burden  you,  I  could  easily 
confess  the  griefs  of  a  life  which  has  been  a  long  and  sorrowful 
struggle  against  a  nature  too  readily  given  to  trusting  others. 
Since  I  have  known  you  life  has  seemed  a  brighter  thing  and 
I  am  trying  to  forget  the  past  and  to  look  forward  with  re- 
newed hope. 


CIECUMSTANCE  39 

"Remember,  dear,  that,  while  to  you  I  write  from  an  open 
heart,  these  intimate  revelations  are  for  you  and  you  only.  I 
hope  to  be  with  you,  and  able  to  see  you  often,  in  a  week  or 
two.  As  my  means  are  limited,  I  have  to  be  careful.  No,  I 
cannot  let  you  help  me,  as  you  say  you  would  wish  to  do.  God 
bless  you !  Yours  ever  and  always, 

"LUCRETIA." 

"  My  article  is  nearly  done.    These  editors  are  so  impatient." 

(A  statement  which  would  probably  have  amused 
the  gentlemen  in  question.) 

Mrs.  Hunter  read  this  letter  with  care,  and  at 
last  inclosed  and  directed  it. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "if  Lionel  does  not  make 
any  new  claims  I  shall  be  able  to  live  for  three 
months.  'After  that  the  deluge,'  but  even  then  one 
can  go  a-fishing."  She  felt  a  little  weary,  but 
smiled  at  her  jest.  As  she  moved  to  the  open  win- 
dow and  looked  over  the  great  city  to  where  on  the 
East  River  the  lights  were  beginning  to  appear  on 
tug  or  steamer,  a  hawk  hovered  high  above  her,  set 
dark  against  the  violet  glow  of  the  eastward  sky. 
She  wondered  how  and  where  he  fed  himself  ?  Then 
she  turned  to  a  long  cheval-glass,  which,  because  of 
a  crack,  had  been  transferred  to  this  upper  story. 

What  she  saw  reassured  her.  She  had  the  art  of 
dress,  was  skilful  in  its  arrangement,  apt  with  her 
fingers.  She  could  meet  that  difficulty ;  for  the  rest 
—she  saw  a  tall  woman  of  fine  figure,  still  hand- 
some, with  something  Oriental  in  the  ivory-like  tint 
of  skin,  the  red,  thin  lips,  the  somewhat  too  black 
and  distinct  eyebrows  over  very  dark  eyes,  deep-set 
and  large. 


40  CIRCUMSTANCE 

The  twilight  darkening,  she  turned  away,  went  to 
her  trunk,  and  came  back  with  two  half  candles, 
which  she  set  in  the  tilted,  battered  candlesticks  on 
each  side  of  the  glass.  Next,  she  lighted  the  sin- 
gle gas-jet,  and,  returning,  again  faced  the  mirror. 
Something  in  the  situation  called  upon  her  imagina- 
tion and  it  became  fertile.  She  tilted  the  long  mir- 
ror and  stood  still,  wondering  how  many  girls,  brides, 
,  the  newly  married,  the  old,  the  wretched,  had  con- 
J  fessed  themselves  with  joy,  wonder,  fear,  despair,  to 
this  long-abandoned  confidant.  Then  she  started 
back  with  a  cry.  Something  behind  her  in  the  dimly 
lighted  room  took  the  shape  of  a  gaunt  face,  seen 
over  her  shoulder  in  the  glass.  It  was  a  cap,  hung 
on  a  nail.  She  said:  "Pshaw!"  but  took  it  down, 
and  again  looked  into  the  mirror.  Some  one  of  her 
imaginings  became  a  memory,  and  suddenly  she 
dropped  on  the  floor,  her  face  in  her  hands,  her  dark 
hair  tumbled  about  her. 

"What  a  fool  I  was!"  The  candles,  set  awry, 
dripped.  The  gas-jet  flared  sideways  in  the  sea 
wind,  and  still  she  sat,  the  hostess  of  more  thoughts 
than  she  cared  to  entertain.  A  knock  startled  her. 
She  went  to  the  door.  It  was  the  laundress  with 
her  linen.  Having  paid  and  dismissed  her,  she  went 
back  to  the  mirror. 

"It  will  do,"  she  said,  and,  gathering  her  dress, 
curtsied  with  admirable  grace,  saying  in  a  low,  clear 
voice,  in  which  there  was  at  times  a  hardly  percep- 
tible foreign  accent: 

"Mr.  Fairthorne,  I  am  sure;  only  a  Fairthorne 
could  bow  like  that.  One  must  have  had  traditions, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  41 

ancestors—"  She  laughed.  "We  must  be  alone 
for  that.  It  is  pretty  strong.  How  shall  I  manage 
it?  Or  else — or  else,  if  that  sugary  little  bon-bon 
is  with  me — 'I  have  looked  forward,  sir,  to  this  so 
long.'  I  must  be  mildly  fluttered,  afraid,  and— a 
little  flattery  in  rising  doses.  The  old  bear  it  well. 
As  time  ceases  to  flatter  they  like  it  from  anyone. 
And  how  for  a  moment  to  make  a  man  forget  his 
years?  There  are  ways— ways;  yes,  for  men,  but 
not  for  women.  Ah !  Madame  Lucretia,  best  to  trust 
to  the  inspiration  of  opportunity.  Yes,"  she  cried, 
"I  am  more  than  handsome;  I  have  power,  attrac- 
tion—what that  commonplace  man  called  'charm.' 
He  might  prove  manageable.  I  wonder  if  he  is 
caught  in  the  sugar-plum's  net?  Well,  some  day 
'/"she  will  tell  me." 


VI 


IN  the  afternoon  in  which  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter had  taken  account  of  her  muni- 
tions of  war,  Sydney  Archer  rang  the 
door-bell  of  John  Fairthorne's  home. 
As  he  waited,  Mrs.  Harry  Swanwick 
came  up  the  steps. 

' '  I  hope  Uncle  John  is  not  ill, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  have 
been  away  for  two  days." 

"No,"  he  replied.  "Mr.  Fairthorne  likes  now  to 
see  me  daily;  but,  as  a  rule,  we  talk  autographs  or 
the  last  book.  You  know  how  interesting  he  can  be 
when  he  is  interested.  He  loses  me  a  good  deal  of 
time." 

"I  suppose  that  can't  be  helped." 
"Oh,  no!  If  one  could  go  from  bed  to  bed,  and 
simply  be  the  technical  engineer  of  human  machines, 
it  would  be  easy;  but  these  machines  have  mothers, 
and  wives,  and  notions.  One  has  to  listen  and  pre- 
scribe for  anxieties,  and  splint  broken  hopes." 

"The  servants  must  be  deaf  or  asleep,"  she  said, 
as  she  rang  again;  "they  are  as  uncertain  as"— she 
laughed — "well,  as  the  art  of  medicine." 

"I  admit  the  uncertainty,"  he  returned  pleas- 
antly; "that  is  part  of  its  interest." 

"Oh,  it  is  bad  enough,"  she  said,  "to  be  the  wisely 
42 


CIRCUMSTANCE  43 

ignorant  patient,  but  I  should  hate  to  follow  so 
illogical  a  profession." 

"It  is  not  that,  but— shall  I  ring  again?" 

"Please."  He  pulled  the  bell  as  only  a  doc- 
tor  can. 

"They  are  usually  prompt,"  he  said. 

"It  is  really  too  bad.  Does  n't  Uncle  John's  auto- 
graph  mania  bore  you  ? ' ' 

"Only  when  I  am  busy,  and  have  to  let  him  talk. 
It  is  a  privilege  of  age  to  bore  people." 

The  door  was  thrown  open  in  competitive  haste 
by  the  old  black  butler  and  a  maid,  who  muttered 
profuse  apologies.  As  they  turned  to  enter  the 
house  a  man  passed  on  the  far  side  of  the  street. 
The  doctor  returned  his  salutation. 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Swan  wick. 

"Mr.  Grace." 

"Ah!  Roger  Grace,  the  banker!  Now,  that  is  a 
man  I  am  quite  curious  about.  He  has  taken  a 
very  useful  fancy  to  Harry.  Do  you  know  him  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  What  I  have  seen  of  him  I  like.  He  is  a 
son  of  the  soil — what  people  call  a  'self-made  man.7  ' 

She  laughed. 

' '  The  soil  must  have  been  rich. ' '  They  were  now 
in  the  wide  hall  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Swan  wick,  I  suppose  that  man  makes 
more  in  a  year  than  I  shall  save  in  a  lifetime.  He 
deserves  it,  too.  Money  never  fell  into  kinder  hands, 
as  I  once  had  reason  to  know." 

Meanwhile  the  two  old  blacks  were  blaming  one 
another,  and  explaining  volubly  that  Miss  Kitty  had 
sent  the  other  servant  on  an  errand. 


44  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"That  will  do,  Peter,"  said  Mrs.  Swanwick.  "I 
have  heard  all  this  before.  Come  into  the  parlor, 
Dr.  Archer.  And  would  you  change  lives  with  Mr. 
Grace?" 

' '  I !  No,  indeed, ' '  he  laughed,  "  not  I ! " 
"Tell  my  uncle  that  Dr.  Archer  is  here,  Peter. 
Harry  speaks  of  Mr.  Grace  as  very  generous,  and 
says  he  is  taken  of  late  with  social  ambitions.  That 
does  seem  to  me  a  belated  fancy  for  a  man  of  forty, 
who  has  had  a  mere  business  life — " 

"There  is  more  in  that  man  than  business  talent. 
If  you  knew  him  even  as  slightly  as  I  do  you  would 
not  think  his  ambition  unreasonable.  You  and  I, 
who  are  born  to  it,  having  it  without  effort,  may 
undervalue  it." 

"You  may  be  right."  As  she  spoke,  Miss  Fair- 
thorne  came  into  the  room. 

"Good  morning,  Dr.  Archer;  my  uncle  will  see 
you.  When  he  lets  you  go,  I  should  like  to  see  you 
a  moment.  My  uncle  is  at  times  very  hard  to  keep 
to  your  orders.  You  doctors  ought  to  supply  moral 
remedies. ' ' 

"Well,  there  are  love  philters,"  said  Madge. 
"Oh,  I  want  temper  philters.     Please  not  to  keep 
him  waiting.    My  cousin  Katherine  is  with  him; 
please  to  tell  her  Mrs.  Swanwick  is  here." 

Archer  went  up-stairs,  thinking  pleasantly  of 
Kitty.  Mary  Fairthorne  looked  after  him  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  followed  her  sister  into  the  back 
parlor,  which,  to  the  westward,  overlooked  the 
garden. 

The  rooms  had  been   furnished   when   changing 


CIRCUMSTANCE  45 

taste  had  sent  the  fine  old  colonial  furniture  to  the 
attic,  and  put  in  its  place  hideously  scrolled  chairs 
and  tables  of  mahogany,  ottomans  of  chenille  work, 
and  black  hair-cloth  sofa  and  chair  covers.  The 
fireplace  was  closed  by  a  white  marble  slab,  through 
which  opened  what  we  absurdly  call  the  register  of 
the  hot-air  furnace.  A  wall-paper  of  Chinese  land- 
scapes decorated  pictureless  walls,  and  on  the  mantel 
were  a  clock  and  candelabra  in  the  worst  taste  of  the 
era  of  the  Directory. 

' '  I  shudder,  Mary,  whenever  I  enter  these  rooms, ' ' 
said  Mrs.  Swan  wick;  ''but  I  am  glad  grandfather 
Fairthorne  made  them  hideous,  otherwise  I  should 
not  have  captured  all  that  beautiful  Sheraton  suite. 
Let  us  go  to  your  room." 

"No,  dear;  I  must  wait  here  to  see  Dr.  Archer. 
I  once  spoke  of  this  furniture  to  uncle;  but  he 
hates  change,  and  as  we  give  neither  balls  nor  din- 
ners it  does  not  matter.  We  are  very  well  here. 
Kitty  will  not  come  down;  after  Uncle  John  is 
through  with  Dr.  Archer,  Kitty  will  take  him  into 
my  little  sitting-room  to  ask  about  my  uncle 's  health, 
etc.  This  will  last  twenty  minutes  or  more.  After 
that,  Dr.  Archer  will  give  me  my  five  minutes,  while 
you  call  on  Uncle  John." 

"Does  this  happen  daily?" 

"Yes,  if  you  mean  the  consultation  with  Kitty," 
said  Mary,  glancing  at  her  sister. 

' '  Is  not  this  anxiety  about  her  dear  uncle  of  rather 
recent  growth?" 

"How  can  you  ask,  Madge?  You  know  Kitty." 
She  spoke  with  a  note  of  impatience  in  her  voice, 


46  CIRCUMSTANCE 

which  none  who  did  not  know  her  well  would  have 
observed.  She  was  always  a  little  on  her  guard 
when  with  Margaret.  The  sisters  were  aware  of 
their  power  to  see  into  each  other,  and  were  at  times 
uneasily  conscious  of  the  fact.  This  gift  of  insight 
arose  from  no  self-interpretative  resemblance,  since 
they  were  as  unlike  in  mind  as  in  body.  When  Mary 
replied,  Madge  said : 

"Well,  I  hope  it  is  not  one  of  Kit's  comedies.  I 
should  not  like  to  see  Sydney  Archer  served  as  Tom 
Masters  has  been.  If  it  be  a  real  thing — oh,  I  should 
hate  it !  Harry  and  I  would  have  to  make  believe  a 
good  deal." 

"It  is  not  a  real  thing,  Madge." 

"It  may  be  too  good  an  imitation,  Mary.  I  sup- 
pose Nemesis  will  overtake  Kitty  some  of  these 
days. ' ' 

"Poor  little  Kitty!  Nemesis  seems  large  for 
her." 

"Poor  Kit!  You  are  wasting  your  charity.  Poor 
little  Kitten,  if  you  like.  She  has  neither  sense  nor 
compassion.  Life  for  her,  my  dear  sister,  is  a  toy 
to  play  with.  It  has  troubled  Harry  and  me.  The 
wisest  of  men  could  not  influence  or  educate  Kitty ; 
she  is  a  grown-up  child.  I  am  longing  to  say  a  word 
of  warning—' 

' '  To  Kitty  ?    You  would  repent  it. ' ' 

"No — to  Archer,"  said  Madge. 

"What  man  was  ever  stopped  in  a  love  affair  by 
reason?  And  yet — " 

"Could  a  woman  be,  Mary?     Could  you?" 

"What   a   question!     Yes;   but   I    predict   that 


CIRCUMSTANCE  47 

Kitty's  wiles  will  not  wear  well.  He  must,  soon  or 
late,  find  her  out.  The  man's  character  is  too  whole- 
some to  be  long  satisfied  by  a  woman  like  Kitty. 
Why  I  love  her  I  do  not  know.  Even  her  sugar  of 
amiability  is  only  outside  like  that  of  a  pill.  To 
think  of  such  an  ending  for  a  man  like  him  does 
seem  sad.  But  I  am  sure  that  it  will  not  be." 

"I  hope  you  may  prove  to  be  right,"  said  her  sis- 
ter; "and  of  course  no  one  can  be  of  any  use.  He 
will  find  our  light-headed  Kitty  a  costly  toy,  and 
only  a  toy.  But  why  does  she  capture  people? 
Why  do  you  love  her,  and  Uncle  John  ?  If  he  loves 
any  one,  it  is  Kit.  Frankly,  I  do  not  love  her." 

"It  is  as  hard  to  explain  likes  as  dislikes,  Madge ; 
and,  after  all,  although  I  think  I  love  Kitty,  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  like  her." 

' '  What  a  droll  distinction !  That  sounds  more 
like  Luke  Pilgrim  than  like  you." 

"What  does  Harry  say?"  asked  Mary. 

"He  laughs  and  says  nothing,  except  that  advice 
lent  unasked  loses  both  self  and  friend.  Of  course, 
dear,  Harry  is  worried.  You  know  what  Archer 
was  to  us  when  Harry  was  wounded,  and  what  he 
has  been  ever  since." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  Sometimes  I  want  to  give 
Kit  a  good  shaking.  She  has  more  power  to  make 
me  angry  than  ten  Uncle  Johns.  Whenever  you 
touch  Kitty  she  gets  small." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  she  shrinks  like  some  insect,  or  those  queer 
sea  things." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  but  for  me  she  begins 


48  CIRCUMSTANCE 

small  and  ends  small,  and  Archer  is  really  a  large 
personality." 

"I  think  he  so  impresses  most  people.  When  Mr. 
Pilgrim  said  he  had  an  'open-air  mind'  I  thought  it 
well  said." 

"Open-air  mind!  I  hate  his  roundabout  English, 
Mary;  but  when  you  folks  of  poetic  temperament 
and  Emersonian  expressions  vow  that  you  under- 
stand one  another,  what  can  a  poor  outsider  say? 
In  my  poor  way,  I  should  call  Sydney  Archer  a 
high-minded  gentleman  who  has  too  much  intellect 
for  the  professional  uncertainties  of  medicine." 

"He  would  not  agree  with  you,"  said  Mary, 
smiling. 

"No.  He  is  piously  devoted  to  one  mistress,  and 
also  to  Kitty." 

"Well,  che  sard  sard,"  said  Mary. 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  thought  Mrs.  Swan  wick. 
"I  want  to  see  him  about  Jack,  and  I  have  but  ten 
minutes.  Could  you  not  disturb  that  tete-a-tete 
with  Kitty?" 

"No,"  said  Mary,  "not  I."  She  was  vexed  to  feel 
that  she  was  flushing  slightly.  "No,  you  do  not  live 
with  our  dear  Kitty;  go  and  do  your  own  errand, 
Madge;  I  shall  not  help  you,  my  dear." 

"Well,  I  must  go  myself,  I  suppose.  If  I  say, 
'Pretty  Kitty,'  she  will  come  like  a  cat.  If  you 
flatter  Kit  she  will  do  what  you  want.  Try  it." 

"Not  I." 

"Why  not?  I  say  to  Jack,  'Here,  take  this  dose, 
and  you  shall  have  this  nice  bon-bon. '  I  give  Kitty 
the  bon-bon  first,  and  the  dose  afterward.  It  does 


CIRCUMSTANCE  49 

not  answer  always.  I  am  just  a  little  fearful  that 
this  Mrs.  Hunter  may  have  won  Kitty's  heart  by 
my  own  base  means ;  but  why  any  woman  as  clever 
as  she  must  be  thinks  it  worth  while  to  cultivate  our 
empty-headed  Kit,  I  do  not  see." 

"Nor  I.     They  write  like  two  lovers." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes,  and  twice  Kitty,  with  an  air  of  mysterious 
importance,  has  mentioned  letters  to  Mr.  Knellwood 
which  Mrs.  Hunter  asked  her  to  forward.  Why  the 
woman  cannot  write  direct  to  a  man  so  well  known  I 
cannot  see." 

"Because,  dear,"  said  Madge,  "you  are  direct; 
and  as  to  Kitty — Mrs.  Hunter  won't  last.  If  you 
would  natter  Kitty  you  would  have  an  easier  time." 

Mary  Fairthorne,  smiling,  shook  her  head. 

"I  do  not  know.  When  I  try  it  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
fibbing,  and  I  am,  too,  in  a  way." 

"I  think,"  said  Madge,  "I  shall  ask  Dr.  Soper  to 
attend  you  for  hypertrophied  conscience;  or  per- 
haps," she  added,  with  meek  malice,  "you  may  pre- 
fer Dr.  Archer.  Here  he  comes;  I  am  saved  my 
perilous  errand." 

"He  is  not  my  M.D.,"  laughed  Mary. 

"How  is  uncle  to-day?"  asked  Madge,  as  the  doc- 
tor, hearing  their  voices,  entered  the  somber  draw- 
ing-room. Archer  laughed  as  at  some  humorous 
recollection : 

"He  has  three  new  symptoms  and  four  new 
autographs.  One  is  a  letter  of  William  Harvey,  the 
discoverer  of  the  circulation.  I  am  sure  it  is  a  for- 
gery, but  I  did  not  say  so." 

4 


50  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Mary  looked  up. 

"That  was  wise  and  well.  It  would  only  annoy 
him." 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "one  must  praise  whatever  he 
has  or  acquires.  Then  he  will  do  what  I  want,  Miss 
Mary,  and  I  do  assure  you  he  has  good  need  to 
obey  me. " 

"And  this  man  does  not  see  through  Kitty!" 
thought  Mary. 

Mrs.  Swanwick  cast  an  amused  glance  at  her  sis- 
ter, who  seemed  unready  to  reargue  the  point  of 
conscience.  Dr.  Archer  continued: 

"I  used  to  fight  some  of  his  queer  theories  as  to 
education,  religion,  or  morals.  Now  I  listen  and  act 
as  chorus.  It  is  sad  to  stand  by  and  watch  the  crum- 
bling of  a  strong  intellect ;  but  he  is  still  very  inter- 
esting— very. ' ' 

"You  will  come  to  see  him  every  day,  please," 
said  Mrs.  Swanwick;  "Jack  is  better.  There  is  no 
need  to  call  to-day." 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned.  "What  a  pleasant 
dinner  that  was ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "I  liked  the  war  talk  and  that 
story  Mr.  Masters  told  of  Harry.  I  had  never 
heard  it.  I  must  tell  it  to  you,  Mary." 

"I  saw  how  it  pleased  you,"  returned  Archer, 
"and  so  did  Tom  Masters."  Archer  had  a  vast 
admiration  for  Margaret  Swanwiek's  combination 
of  strength,  tact,  and  goodness,  and  he  was  one  of 
the  men  who  profess  to  believe  that  women  make  the 
best  friends. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said.     As  he  spoke,  tall,  fair,  blue- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  51 

eyed,  he  looked  down  on  his  friend's  graceful  slight- 
ness,  and  then  at  the  nobly  modeled  girl,  whose  too 
cold  hand  awakened  his  professional  instincts,  and 
made  him  consider  her  with  brief  attention.  He 
concluded,  as  he  drove  away,  that  this  uneasy  house- 
hold was  enough  to  account  for  her  look  of  care. 
Or  was  it  care?  With  characteristic  self-study,  he 
began  to  ask  himself  why  Miss  Kitty  was  so  attrac- 
tive. It  was  fast  becoming  a  serious  question,  and 
somehow  went  and  came  in  his  mind  with  the 
contrasted  thought  of  this  other  woman,  Mary  Fair- 
thorne,  whom  he  called  ' '  friend ' ' ;  her  unstirred  se- 
renity—people spoke  of  her  as  "cold"— her  calm  en- 
durance; and  then  again  he  saw  the  rosebud  Kitty, 
with  her  pretty  ways,  her  vivacity,  and — here  his 
thought  was  checked  by  something  reminiscent.  He 
had  listened  with  a  sense  of  shock  when  Tom  Mas- 
ters, long  before,  had  said: 

"Yes,  Sydney,  Miss  Morrow  is  as  agreeable  as  a 
woman  can  be  who  has  no  conception  of  the  value 
'  of  repose  of  mind  or  body.  Perhaps  she  is  just  a 
trifle  common."  Then  he  had  added :  "But  I  should 
not  have  said  that."  And  yet,  later,  Masters  had 
proved  an  easy  victim.  Archer  had  made  no  reply, 
but  the  criticism  stuck  in  his  head  like  a  memorial 
bur.  He  had,  of  late,  in  Mr.  Fairthorne's  interest, 
been  obliged  to  see  Miss  Fairthorne  often,  for  Miss 
Kitty  generally  avoided  duties  which  exacted  length 
of  service,  and  made  up  for  this  neglect  by  a  certain 
affectation  of  interest  which  she  contributed  as  her 
share  of  the  business  of  caring  for  a  querulous 
invalid. 


52  CIRCUMSTANCE 

After  one  of  his  talks  with  Kitty,  Archer  could 
never  remember  what  she  had  said,  but  a  talk  with 
Mary  left  a  strong  and  valid  impression  of  a  thought- 
ful and  imaginative  mind.  Once  her  uncle  had 
said  to  him  that  Mary  Fairthorne  would  be  an  old 
maid,  that  she  was  cold  by  nature,  and  that  if  men 
did  sometimes  fancy  themselves  in  love  with  a  statue, 
the  statue  was  not  very  apt  to  contribute  oppor- 
tunity. Archer  had  disliked  the  comment — he  did 
not  know  why.  He  was  dimly  aware  that  Miss  Fair- 
thorne cut  short  the  necessary  interviews  which 
Kitty,  for  herself,  managed  to  lengthen ;  and  yet  he 
felt  that  his  friendliness  of  relation  with  the  elder 
girl  increased  as  time  went  on,  while  with  Kitty 
he  was  conscious  of  an  attraction  which  he  did  not 
incline  to  analyze,  and  when  with  or  away  from 
Mary  Fairthorne  he  was  aware  of  an  attraction 
which  he  found  it  less  hard  to  explain.  Her  calm 
reserve  was  like  a  challenge.  Men,  in  general,  dis- 
like to  think  that  there  is  any  woman  who  cannot  be 
captured.  This  is  the  fragmentary  survival  of  an 
animal  instinct.  If  love  could  begin  both  in  heart 
and  head,  Sydney  Archer  was  in  double  danger. 

He  was  driven  to  his  out-clinic,  and  gave  himself 
head  and  heart  to  a  business  which  requires  ideal 
patience,  perfect  sweetness  of  character,  and  sympa- 
thetic insight.  He  was  far  from  thought  of  the 
girl  who  stood  at  the  window,  unable  to  escape  from 
importunate  reflections  as  to  the  man  who  had  just 
left  her.  She  was  deeply  troubled.  The  modest  re- 
serve of  a  self-contained  nature  recoiled  from  self- 
confession. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  63 

Her  days,  since  at  eighteen  she  had  begun  to  live, 
an  orphan,  with  her  uncle  and  cousin,  had  not  been 
happy.  Now  she  was  resolutely  taking  stock  of  her 
life.  Yes,  she  had  friends — women,  two  or  three. 
Her  uncle,  who  could  be  royal  company,  was  often, 
for  a  week  at  a  time,  increasingly  capable  of  wearing 
out  the  sweetest  temper.  And  now  she  was  even 
wrathfully  becoming  aware  that  she  was  too  con- 
stantly thinking  of  one  man.  Her  peril  lay  in  his 
character,  and  the  completeness  with  which  it  satis- 
fied her  ideals  and  tempted  her  imagination. 

Archer  was  a  South  Carolinian  whose  mother  had 
come  to  the  North  to  educate  her  children.  When 
the  war  broke  out  he  had  just  finished  his  medical 
studies.  He  elected  to  stand  by  his  country,  to  the 
rage  of  all  whom  he  loved  best.  For  four  years  he 
served  as  a  surgeon,  and  then,  having  made  many 
friends,  settled  in  the  Northern  city.  He  had  had 
a  hard  struggle  to  keep  himself  afloat  and  to  help 
brothers  and  sisters  left  ruined  by  the  war.  It  had 
been  difficult,  but  useful.  Perhaps  in  his  early  life 
his  sense  of  his  own  mental  powers  had  made  him 
a  little  too  positive,  even  a  trifle  vain.  All  that  had 
gone,  or  was  going.  He  was  of  those  who  prosper 
morally  in  the  sunshine  of  success.  He,  too,  was 
imaginative,  fond  of  music,  and  ready  with  brush  or 
pencil.  If  any  one  now  knew  of  his  skill,  it  was 
when  he  lectured  and  the  ready  hand  on  the  black- 
board made  clear  to  the  eye  what  he  was  eagerly 
striving  to  teach. 

This  habitual  giving  of  the  tithes  of  life  to  the 
ward  and  the  clinic,  so  common  that  we  forget  how 


64  CIRCUMSTANCE 

large  is  the  gift,  made  it  natural  and  easy  for  Mary 
Fairthorne  to  use  his  contact  with  the  poor  as  a 
channel  for  her  generous  use  of  a  moderate  income. 
It  had  brought  them  more  together,  and  in  the 
paucity  of  human  intercourse  to  which  her  reserved 
nature  inclined  her,  the  constant,  every-day  company 
of  a  man  as  genial  as  Archer  had  full  chance  to 
affect  a  woman  liberally  capable  of  appreciation. 

He  was  a  man  of  quick  sympathies,  nor  is  it  true 
that  to  be  effective  these  require  the  schooling  of 
personal  sorrow.  He  had  known  only  one  deep 
grief,  when  he  had  decided  to  stand  by  his  country 
1  and  saw  his  mother  leave  him  to  go  south,  refusing 
his  parting  kiss.  But  that  was  far  in  the  past.  Cer- 
tainly he  had  the  gift  of  understanding  the  ner- 
vously disordered  and  the  mother  anguished  beside 
the  cot  of  her  child. 

The  woman  he  had  left  rebelled  in  all  her  nature 
at  these  too  intrusive  thoughts  of  a  man  who  was 
nominally  but  a  friend.  At  last,  hearing  her  uncle 's 
bell,  she  went  up-stairs. 

When  Mary  entered,  Kitty  was  seated  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair.  She  held  one  of  his  hands  in  her  lap, 
and  with  the  other  was  gently  playing  with  his  hair, 
which  he  wore  in  thick  gray  curls  above  the  strongly 
marked  features  of  his  race.  It  was  one  of  his  good 
days,  or  Kitty  would  have  been  otherwise  occupied. 
He  had  the  fondness  of  some  very  old  men  for  agree- 
able women  and  was  at  times  well  pleased  when 
Kitty  was,  as  now,  in  one  of  her  caressing  moods. 
As  he  turned  at  the  sound  of  Mary's  step,  Kitty 
kissed  him  and  a  letter  fell  from  her  lap  on  to  the 
floor  unnoticed. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  55 

' '  Are  you  going  out  this  afternoon,  Mary  ? "  he  said. 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  replied ;  ' '  I  ride  at  four.  What  can  I 
do  for  you  ? ' ' 

"Stop  at  the  library  and  ask  them  to  send  me 
Hakewill's  'Apologia.'  I  want  to  show  Archer  a 
passage  about  bleeding  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
You  might  walk  there  before  you  ride."  As  usual, 
Mary  had  her  hands  over-full. 

' '  Very  well,  sir ;  but,  Kitty,  could  n  't  you  go  ?  " 

"I  have  an  engagement,  and  letters  I  really  must 
write. ' ' 

"I  will  get  you  the  book,"  said  Mary. 

"Talking  of  letters,  Mary,  Katherine"— he  never 
called  her  Kitty — "has  had  a  very  interesting  letter 
from  Mrs.  Hunter.  She  must  be  a  remarkable 
woman.  She  has  asked  to  have  my  views  on  a  pas- 
sage in  Catullus.  I  shall  write  to  her,  and,  by  the 
way,  get  down  the  three  editions  and  put  them  on 
the  table.  Katherine  could  not  find  them.  I  have 
always  said  you  ought  to  have  learned  Latin.  It 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  talk  to  a  woman  who  reads 
Catullus.  I  should  like  to  have  his  autograph.  I 
should  like,  by  the  way,  to  know  what  is  the  oldest 
autograph  extant. ' ' 

Kitty  was  outside  of  this  kind  of  talk.  Mary's 
imagination  began  to  wander  in  the  past. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "the  scrawled  name  of  some 
Roman  soldier  upon  the  walls  of  the  temples  on  the 
Nile." 

"Oh,  no!  The  Assyrian  tablets  would  be  older." 
They  went  on  talking.  Kitty,  a  little  bored,  de- 
clared that  she  must  go,  and  remembering  that  she 
wanted  a  novel,  said  she  would  order  the  book  her 


56  CIRCUMSTANCE 

uncle  had  asked  for  as  soon  as  she  had  written  her 
letters.  Mary  thanked  her.  Sad  to  say,  when  Kitty 
reached  the  library  she  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
title,  except  that  it  was  somebody's  "Apology." 
This  resulted  in  Barclay's  "Apology"  being  sent, 
of  which  Mary  Fairthorne  heard  next  day  to  her  cost. 

After  a  pleasant  talk  with  her  uncle,  such  as  was 
becoming  rare  of  late,  Mary  left  Catullus  on  his 
table,  and  as  she  reminded  him  that  it  was  time  for 
his  afternoon  nap,  saw  on  the  floor  the  letter  Kitty 
had  let  fall.  She  picked  it  up  and  seeing  that  it 
was  addressed  to  her  cousin  took  it  to  Kitty's  room 
and  said  as  she  entered : 

"Here  is  a  letter  you  dropped." 

Kitty  flushed,  and  said  quickly : 

"Did  you  read  it?" 

"I?  My  dear  Kitty,  I  do  not  read  other  people's 
letters. ' ' 

"But  it  was  open.     I  am  sure  you  read  it." 

"I  did  not,  and  never,  never  again" — and  she 
laid  a  strong  hand  on  the  little  woman's  shoulder 
as  she  sat — "never  do  you  dare  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  me!  I  neither  lie  nor  read  letters  not  meant 
for  me." 

"I— I— did  n't  mean  that,"  said  Kitty,  who  had 
been  well  scared,  and  began  to  cry. 

"Well,  never,  never  try  me  in  this  way  again," 
and,  despite  Kitty's  sobs,  she  went  out,  tall,  stately, 
angry  with  her  cousin,  and  beginning  to  be  vexed 
with  her  own  want  of  self-command. 

Kitty  rose,  shut  the  door,  rubbed  her  plump  shoul- 
der, for  the  grip  had  been  strong,  and  cast  an  eye 


CIRCUMSTANCE  57 

over  the  letter.  She  knew  that  under  like  circum- 
stances she  herself  might  have  read  the  letter,  and 
it  was  characteristic  that  a  residuum  of  doubt  still 
possessed  her  mind.  At  last  she  reflected,  with  re- 
lief, that  had  Mary  really  read  it  she  would  have 
been  even  more  angry,  for  this  was  a  part  of  what 
Mrs.  Hunter  wrote: 

"But  enough  of  the  fashions — not  the  most  earnest-minded 
woman  can  afford  to  neglect  them— you  have  the  good  sense  to 
know  that  [Kitty  felt  the  force  of  this  remark].  Sad  ex- 
perience has  made  me  cautious  in  friendship,  but  more  and 
more  do  I  feel  that  to  you  and  with  you  I  can  be  frank. 

"  I  can  see  why,  as  you  say,  you  are  not  considered  in  your 
uncle's  house  as  you  should  be.  You  should  assert  yourself, 
and  when  we  are  more  together  I  may  help  you  with  advice. 
You  are  too  mature  to  be  governed  incessantly  by  your  cousin, 
and  I  can  well  understand  why  you  should  resent  these  petty 
criticisms  of  dress  and  manner.  I  do  not  see  how  either  could 
be  improved. 

"Remember,  dear,  to  ask  your  uncle  about  the  passage  in 
Catullus.  Perhaps  he  will  honor  me  with  a  word  of  reply.  I 
am  detained  here  a  few  days,  but  hope  soon  to  be  with  you, 
and  some  day  to  introduce  to  you  my  brother  Lionel,  the  best 
and  the  handsomest  of  men." 

Kitty  reread  this  letter,  and  gave  brief  thought 
to  Lionel  as  she  locked  it  up  and  went  out  on  her 
uncle's  errand. 

Meanwhile  Mary  Fairthorne  rode  through  the 
willows  of  the  low-lying  Neck-lands  at  a  rate  which 
astonished  her  old  black  groom.  The  ride  did  her 
good,  body  and  soul,  and  care  sat  less  heavily  behind 
the  rider  as  she  turned  to  walk  her  horse  homeward 
over  the  paved  streets. 


VII 


I  HE  Reverend  Cyril  Knell  wood  was  the 
rector  of  the  small  church  of  St.  Ag- 
nes, which  a  few  wealthy  parishioners 
and  his  own  means  enabled  him  to  sus- 
tain with  due  attention  to  the  High- 
Church  forms  which  seemed  to  him  essential.  He 
was  from  conviction  celibate.  Honest,  cautious,  and 
in  some  ways  narrow,  he  was  devoted  to  his  work, 
and  gave  himself  thoroughly  to  such  unending  labor 
among  the  poor  as  would  have  been  more  easy  if  he 
had  fasted  less  and  given  his  large  frame  the  dis- 
used tonic  of  healthful  exercise.  At  his  church  Miss 
Kitty  lightly  professed  her  creed  and  said  her 
prayers  once  a  day  on  Sundays,  finding  the  music 
and  the  ceremonial  service  much  to  her  taste.  At 
times  Kitty  was  religious,  as  at  times  she  was  several 
other  things;  but  her  brief  periods  of  seriousness 
were  usually  in  some  relation  to  the  Reverend  Cyril, 
whose  gaunt  largeness,  ascetic,  firmly  lined  face,  and 
melancholy  eyes  she  greatly  admired.  Her  deli- 
ciously  rosy,  gay  girlhood  was  in  some  way  pleasing 
to  the  unsuspicious,  tired,  worn  man  of  middle  age; 
as  for  Kitty,  she  would  have  coquetted  with  St. 
Paul.  The  rector,  as  yet  unaware  of  his  peril, 
waited  for  Miss  Morrow  in  the  drawing-room,  and 

58 


CIRCUMSTANCE  59 

consulted  at  intervals  a  note-book,  which  he  put  in 
his  pocket  as  Miss  Kitty  entered.  She  had  lingered 
to  change  a  neck  ribbon  and  to  set  in  order  the  wil- 
ful masses  of  her  flaxen  hair. 

"God's  peace  be  with  you,  child,"  he  said,  as  she 
came  in,  rosy,  radiant,  smiling. 

She  said:  "Good  morning,  Father,"  and  went  on 
to  ask  a  number  of  needless  questions  as  to  the  music 
and  the  services.  He  answered  patiently,  in  a  rather 
low  voice,  pleasingly  modulated. 

Kitty  had  seated  herself  on  the  black  hair-cloth 
sofa  beside  him.  Presently,  moving  a  little,  he  said 
that  he  had  come  on  a  small  matter  of  business,  and, 
rising,  went  to  the  window,  remarking  that  his  sight 
was  not  good.  Perhaps  it  was  not;  he  was  slightly 
near-sighted.  He  took  out  his  glasses  and  consid- 
ered his  note-book,  after  which,  returning,  he  sat 
down  in  a  chair.  This  ripe,  eager,  material  beauty 
disturbed  him.  He  looked  up  and  as  it  were  past 
her,  and  felt  a  momentary  sensation  of  half-ex- 
plained emotion. 

* '  You  look  pale,  Father, ' '  said  Kitty.  ' '  Mary  says 
you  fast  too  much. ' '  As  she  spoke  she  put  a  hand  on 
his  arm.  ' '  Let  me  get  you  a  glass  of  wine. ' ' 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  drawing  away;  "I  am  very 
well."  It  was  not  quite  true.  He  was  underfed 
and  overworked — just  in  the  condition  when  emo- 
tions are  apt  to  get  out  of  control.  He  felt  the 
weakness,  and  resented  the  fact  that  it  had  been 
visible  to  the  girl. 

"Perhaps  a  little  cologne,"  said  Kitty,  with  a 
gentle  note  of  real  anxiety  in  her  tones. 


60  CIRCUMSTANCE 

" I  am  in  no  need  of  it,"  he  said,  almost  sharply. 
"I  have  had,  as  you  know,  letters  from  a  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter, who,  it  seems,  intends  to  spend  the  winter  here. 
She  incloses  a  letter  of  warm  praise,  given,  it  ap- 
pears, some  years  ago  by  her  former  rector  at  Um- 
stead.  He  is  now  dead.  She  writes  very  intelli- 
gently as  to  her  desire  to  assist  in  the  church  work, 
and  refers  to  you  as  her  friend." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  so  good,  and 
so — so  attractive." 

"I  desire  to  know  rather  more  of  her,  and  of  what 
she  wants.  Her  letters  are  a  little  vague." 

"Oh,  she  can  do  anything,"  said  Kitty. 

"And  still  I  should  like  to  know  more."  He  was 
careful,  perhaps  over-cautious,  for  not  all  the  women 
who  had  asked  for  his  guidance  or  proffered  help 
had  proved  to  possess  the  single-minded  devotion 
which  accepted  the  noble-looking  priest  as  one  shut 
out  from  the  world  of  feminine  allurements.  Just 
now,  when  Kitty  had  said  that  Mrs.  Hunter  was  at- 
tractive, and  later  that  she  had  such  a  perfect  figure, 
he  reasonably  thought  it  irrelevant  and  said  as  much. 
At  last,  seeing  that  Kitty  was  unable  materially  to 
aid  his  quest,  he  rose :  "Mrs.  Hunter  spoke  of  having 
corresponded  with  your  uncle.  I  have  to  see  him 
about  another  matter.  Is  he  at  home  ? ' ' 

Kitty  said  yes;  would  he  come  up  to  the  library? 
As  they  crossed  the  room,  she  took  a  rose  from  a  vase. 

"Let  me  put  it  in  your  button-hole." 

"I  do  not  wear  flowers." 

"Then  you  must  carry  it,"  she  cried,  gaily.  "I 
cannot  have  my  gifts  slighted."  He  put  out  an 


CIRCUMSTANCE  61 

open  palm.  Her  touch,  lingering,  as  she  laid  the 
rose  on  his  hand,  again  disturbed  him,  while  Kitty 
went  on  cheerfully: 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  rather  neglected  confession 
of  late.  I—" 

"No  matter,"  he  broke  in;  "we  will  talk  of  that 
another  time."  He  was  sternly  asking  himself  if  he 
were  a  fit  confessor  for  this  rosy  girl,  with  her  pretty 
ways. 

Her  uncle  had  always  liked  the  broad-shouldered 
clergyman,  although  they  had  scarcely  one  opinion 
in  which  they  were  agreed.  Once,  when  he  had  been 
asked  by  Mary  why  he  liked  Mr.  Knellwood,  he  had 
answered : 

"Well,  Mary,  he  is  a  gentleman,  which  is  rare 
nowadays.  Also,  we  are  at  one  about  nothing,  and 
that  adds  interest  to  human  interviews ;  and  finally, 
my  dear,  he  is  very  definite,  which  I  like." 

Mary  laughed ;  she  respected  Mr.  Knellwood,  but 
did  not  wholly  like,  perhaps  did  not  understand  him. 

"I  do  not  think  him  definite  at  all,  Uncle  John. 
He  has  been  wobbling  feebly  for  years  between  two 
churches,  if  you  call  that  definite." 

"He  does  not  admit  that,"  and  in  fact  it  was  not 
true.  "About  the  churches,  I  do  not  care.  He  is 
definite  enough  while  it  lasts." 

' '  Ah ! ' '  exclaimed  Mary,  laughing,  ' '  I  like  that ! ' ' 

"And  'wobble'  is  an  objectionable  word." 
^  ' '  But  expressive,  sir. ' ' 

When  the  servant  said  "Mr.  Knellwood  is  in  the 
parlor,"  Mr.  Fairthorne,  who  heard  imperfectly, 
asked : 


62  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"What  was  that?     Who  is  it?" 

Mary  replied:  "Mr.  Knell  wood.  He  is  talking  to 
Kitty.  He  will  ask  you  for  money ;  he  told  me  yes- 
terday that  he  would." 

"They  all  do  that— I  mean  ask  for  money.  I 
gave  him  some  help  last  year.  The  charity  is  a  good 
one — at  least  you  said  so." 

' '  I  do  not  fancy  him,  uncle ;  but  as  an  intelligent 
engine  of  charity  he  is  unequaled." 

"He  is  as  wasteful  as  other  engines,"  said  Fair- 
thorne;  "between  him  and  your  other  mendicants 
and  that  blank  doctor  I  am  being  impoverished.  I 
won't  give  him  a  dime." 

"Yes,  you  will." 

"I  hate  to  give  away  money  and  see  no  results. 
When  you  become  old  you  will  know  that  the  virtue, 
the  goodness,  represented  by  giving  money  grows 
with  the  years ;  the  older  you  are,  the  harder  to  give, 
and  the  greater  credit,  I  presume." 

"I  see  no  credit  in  it  at  all,"  said  Mary,  leaning 
over  his  chair;  "it  is  the  easiest  of  all  duties.  I 
hear  Mr.  Knellwood ;  now,  a  good  large  check. ' '  As 
she  was  about  to  leave  him,  Mr.  Knellwood  entered, 
Kitty  saying: 

"Here  is  Father  Knellwood,  uncle."  Mary 
waited,  while  Kitty  sat  down  and  taking  Felisa,  the 
cat,  on  her  lap,  began  to  make  her  uncomfortable  by 
blowing  on  her  ears.  Mr.  Fairthorne  greeted  the 
rector  warmly.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Knellwood,  with  his 
hat  on  his  knees,  was  glancing  with  eager  longing 
at  the  thousands  of  brilliantly  bound  volumes  about 
him.  Mary  Fairthorne  leaned  against  the  mantel, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  63 

looking  down  from  her  fair  height  on  the  two  men, 
resolute,  now  that  she  had  not  escaped  in  time,  to  see 
that  her  uncle  did  not  refuse  to  give. 

"Well,  your  reverence,"  said  Fairthorne,  "is  it 
money  or  books— or  theological  advice?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Kitty,  as  Felisa's  temper  failing  her, 
she  laid  a  sharp  claw  on  Kitty's  white  hand  and 
leaped  to  the  floor. 

"The  beast!"  cried  Kitty. 

"You  are  rightly  served,"  said  John  Fairthorne, 
while  the  girl  wrapped  a  handkerchief  about  the 
hand  and  Cyril  Knellwood  looked  up  in  wonder  that 
any  one  could  scold  her.  Kitty  pouted  for  a  minute 
and  then,  as  she  was  never  at  rest  very  long,  arose 
and  standing  beside  her  uncle 's  chair,  began  to  pose, 
laying  the  uninjured  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  pat- 
ting him  tenderly. 

"Damn  it!"  he  said,  "let  me  alone."  When 
weak  or  ill  he  liked  her  caressing  ways,  but  at  times, 
or  when  others  were  present,  he  as  plainly  disliked 
them. 

"I  do  not  think  you  ought  to  swear  before  clergy- 
men," said  Miss  Morrow. 

"Go  to  the  devil,  you  goose !"  Then  he  turned  to 
Mr.  Knellwood,  and  with  the  utmost  courtesy  said: 
"Pardon  me,  it  was  purely  exclamatory." 

Mr.  Knellwood,  embarrassed,  returned: 

"It  is  of  no  moment.  I  did  not  make  the  deca- 
logue." 

Kitty,  indignant,  walked  across  the  room,  sat  down 
at  a  window,  and  considered  her  offended  dignity 
and  the  garden. 


64  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Well,"  asked  Fairthorne,  "are  you  coveting  your 
neighbor's  goods,  Mr.  Knellwood?" 

"I  am,"  said  the  rector;  "but  it  is  not  I,  it  is 
my  Master  who  asks." 

"And  how  much,  pray?  Out  with  the  whole 
villainy. ' ' 

"The  St.  Agnes  orphanage  is  in  debt,  and  the 
interest  on  the  mortgage  is  in  arrears." 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"We  need  five  hundred  dollars.  Miss  Mary  has 
given  me  one  hundred." 

"Did  you  not  say  there  were  other  needs?"  said 
Mary. 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  hesitating. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  miss,  and  give  me  my  check- 
book. There,  will  that  do?" 

"I  thank  you  in  the  name  of  my  Master." 

"Well,  don't  come  back  soon." 

Mary  moved  over  to  his  side  and  saw  that  he  had 
given  eight  hundred  dollars.  She  said,  smiling : 

"You  are  very  grasping,  Mr.  Knellwood.  Eight 
hundred !  Thank  you,  uncle. ' ' 

"The  Lord  knows  why  I  was  such  a  fool!" 

"Yes,  he  knows,"  said  Cyril.  "I  wish  your  kind 
of  folly  were  common." 

Kitty,  who  was  as  usual  in  debt,  and  had  lately 
loaned  Mrs.  Hunter  a  modest  sum,  had  early  in  the 
day  been  refused  relief  by  her  uncle.  Now  she  rose 
and  left  the  room  without  a  word— a  rather  unusual 
exit  for  her.  Seeing  Mr.  Knellwood  about  to  ex- 
press his  feelings  further  in  some  form  of  thankful 
statement,  Fairthorne  said : 


CIRCUMSTANCE  65 

"Let  us  drop  this  matter.  Yes,  I  know;  but  if 
there  be  one  thing  I  hate  more  than  giving  money,  it 
is  being  thanked  for  it.  Console  me  by  taking— no, 
let  me  send  you  some  of  these  new  books.  Here  is 
a  life  of  Servetus  and  Random 's  '  Theories  of  Divine 
Methods.'  I  am  keeping  this  'History  of  the  Coun- 
cil of  Trent'  to  bait  you  about  celibacy.  Mr.  Ran- 
dom has  hit  on  my  favorite  idea  that  the  imperfec- 
tion of  this  world  suggests  imperfection  in  the 
immediate  Creator." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  rector. 

' '  Yes,  considering  the  ingenuity  of  Nature  and  the 
unlimited  possibilities  at  her  disposal,  she  seems  to 
have  bungled  pretty  badly. ' ' 

"But  were  they  unlimited?" 

' '  Take  care,  Mr.  Knellwood ! ' '  cried  Mary,  laugh- 
ing. 

"He  thinks,"  continued  Fairthorne,  "that  the 
task  of  creation  may  have  been  relegated  to  inferior 
creative  individualities.  If  each  had  a  world  so  as- 
signed, star  travel  would  be  interesting."  Fair- 
thorne's  deep-set  blue  eyes — the  blue  eyes  which  the 
years  leave  always  young — twinkled  with  mirth.  Mr. 
Knellwood  sat  up,  and,  as  usual,  accepted  battle, 
never  suspecting  the  enjoyment  which  the  old  gen- 
tleman got  out  of  the  earnestness  with  which  the 
clergyman  considered  his  gay  inventions. 

"Mr.  Fairthorne,"  he  returned,  "what  you  say  is 
interesting.  I  will  think  it  over.  As  the  angels, 
we  are  told,  are  God's  ministers,  he  may  have  chosen 
to  use  them  thus." 

' '  Oh,   Mr.   Knellwood ! ' '  said  Miss  Mary,   much 

5 


66  CIRCUMSTANCE 

amused,  "you  are  getting  into  trouble.  Never  begin 
by  admitting  my  uncle's  premises." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Mary;  but  my  good  friend  can- 
not tempt  me  to-day.  His  check  is  a  solid  argument 
against  the  completeness  of  this  earth's  imperfec- 
tion. There  is  one  good  man  in  it."  It  was  pleas- 
antly said,  with  the  courtesy  which  made  Knellwood 
a  likable  man,  despite  his  obvious  limitations.  Mary 
clapped  her  hands  joyously. 

"A  hit!     A  very  palpable  hit!" 

"And  yet,"  said  Cyril,  "you  will  let  me  say,  too, 
Mr.  Fairthorne,  that  however  curious  such  varieties 
of  speculation  may  be,  I  do  not  think  they  ought  to 
be  cast  in  the  way  of  the  young." 

"By  George!  Knellwood,  that  is  fine.  Mary  riots 
in  skeptic  delights." 

"  I  do  not,  sir.     Do  not  trust  him. ' ' 

"And  as  to  Katherine,  she  is  as  supremely  inca- 
pable of  thought  as  Felisa,  my  cat." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  the  clergyman,  "to  think  you 
do  not  know  as  I  do  my  good  little  parishioner.  But 
my  time  is  up.  I  had  another  small  errand ;  I  have 
had  letters  from  a  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  speaks  of  know- 
ing Miss  Morrow  and  mentions  you  as  a  correspon- 
dent." 

"Well,  we  have  exchanged  letters.  She  is,  I  take 
it,  a  remarkable  woman.  What  of  her?" 

"She  is  coming  here,  and  wants  to  assist  in  my 
parish  work.  My  experience  in  the  past  makes  me 
careful. ' ' 

"I  recommend  Mrs.  Hunter,"  said  Fairthorne, 
lightly;  "she  is  handsome  and  clever.  What  more 


CIRCUMSTANCE  67 

can  the  church  ask?  Katherine,  as  you  must  know, 
is  an  unfailing  judge  of  human  character.  I  am 
told  that  she  adores  her. ' ' 

Mr.  Knellwood  smiled.  He  knew  that  he  was  not 
being  seriously  considered ;  nevertheless,  he  said  as 
he  rose:  "Many  thanks,  Mr.  Fairthorne;  I  must  wait 
to  see  her,  I  suppose.  Pardon  my  troubling  you, 
and  again,  thank  you."  Miss  Fairthorne  went 
down-stairs  with  Mr.  Knellwood,  saying : 

"You  must  not  take  my  uncle  too  literally.  He 
knows  nothing  of  Mrs.  Hunter." 

"Miss  Morrow  tells  me  she  is  a  woman  of  serious 
views.  That  ought  to  suffice ;  but  I  am  perhaps  over- 
cautious. ' ' 

When  Mary  returned  to  the  library  she  found  her 
uncle  asleep  in  his  chair.  This  had  been  common  of 
late.  He  disliked  to  be  reminded  of  it  and  accord- 
ingly Mary  sat  down  noiselessly  to  make  a  copy,  in 
her  clear  hand,  of  letters  in  Lord  Burleigh's  crabbed 
script  recently  added  to  her  uncle's  collection.  As 
he  would  buy  letters  only,  she  often  found  them 
such  as  to  excite  her  interest.  Presently  John  Fair- 
thorne sat  up. 

"That  theological  idiot  has  gone?"  he  asked. 

"Mr.  Knellwood  has  gone,  delighted  with  your 
generosity. ' ' 

' '  What  ?  what  ?  Generosity ! "  He  had  forgotten. 
Mary  was  too  kindly  to  insist  on  this  lapse  of  mem- 
ory. She  said,  however: 

"Uncle  John,  you  should  not  have  left  him  with 
the  belief  that  you  can  indorse  this  Mrs.  Hunter. 


68  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Kitty's  enthusiasms  are  not  always  wisely  placed. 
I  hope  you  will  not — ' ' 

"Will  not  what?  Confound  it,  Mary,  I  shall  do 
as  I  please."  He  looked  flushed  and  angry.  "Damn 
Mrs.  Hunter !  Every  one  tries  to  manage  me.  Kath- 
erine  is  the  only  comfort  I  have." 

Mary  was  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  these  sudden 
fits  of  unreason. 

"The  letters  are  copied,  sir,  I  think,  clearly." 
She  set  the  portfolio  on  his  desk,  and  left  the  room. 

"I  had  better  not  have  tried  to  counsel  Uncle 
John, ' '  she  said  to  herself ;  but  for  Mary  duties  were 
very  insistent  creditors. 


VIII 

was  the  end  of  November  before  Mrs. 
Lucretia  Hunter  was  able  to  go  to  Phila- 
delphia. When  at  last  the  time  of  her 
quarterly  paid  income  arrived  she  no 
longer  delayed.  Mr.  Knellwood,  with 
whom  she  had  exchanged  several  letters,  had  at  her 
desire  mentioned  a  reputable  boarding-house,  and 
Miss  Morrow  had  secured  for  her  the  desired  room. 
Meanwhile,  Fate  had  dealt  harshly  with  this  gal- 
lant free-lance.  The  brother  suddenly  appeared. 
He  was  now  out  of  employment  for  the  third  time. 
After  his  early  boyhood  he  had  been  sustained  at 
school  and  then  at  a  Western  college  for  two  years, 
by  work  and  self-sacrifice  on  the  part  of  his  sis- 
ter. He  was  always  just  going  to  succeed,  was  capa- 
ble of  brief  effort  in  any  novel  pursuit,  and  then 
was  as  sure  to  give  up  or  be  given  up.  School, 
college,  an  art  school,  law  studies,  a  business  college, 
and  last  a  clerkship,  all  in  turn  ended  in  some  form 
of  failure.  He  was  the  constant  burden  she  carried, 
and  she  carried  it  bravely,  loving  him,  proud  of  his 
singular  beauty,  lavish  to  him  alone,  hopeful  always, 
with  a  strange  satisfaction  in  self-immolation,  due 
perhaps  in  part  to  the  fact  that  the  years  between 


70  CIRCUMSTANCE 

them  gave  her  sisterly  relation  the  effect  of  mother- 
hood. It  is  doubtful  if  perfect  physical  beauty  is 
ever  unselfish.  This  man,  though  small  and  slight, 
/  was  more  beautiful  than  a  man  should  be.  He  knew 
V  it,  and  the  sister  counted  on  it  as  a  part  of  her 
capital. 

This  time  he  had  come  upon  her  again  a  little  too 
early  for  her  plans,  having  lost  his  clerkship  by  rea- 
son of  ignorance  and  unpunctuality.  He  told  her 
that  he  had  left  because  he  was  tired  of  it.  She 
was  fully  aware  that  he  was  lying,  but  that  inves- 
tigation was  useless  waste  of  time.  After  thinking 
it  all  over  she  said  that  she  would  write  for  him  to 
the  house  where  a  room  had  been  taken  for  her. 
She  might  perhaps  go  elsewhere.  She  hoped  he 
would  keep  quiet  and  behave  himself.  He  spoke  of 
his  desire  to  pay  certain  debts,  but  when  she  learned 
that  they  were  owing  in  Boston  she  smiled  at  the 
simple  artifice,  said  they  must  wait,  and  kissed  him, 
adding : 

"I  should  like,  Lionel,  to  ask  you  to  be  good;  fail- 
ing that,  may  I  ask  you  to  be  prudent?  I  must  feel 
at  ease ;  and  remember,  as  I  told  you,  we  are  still  the 
orphan  children  of  an  English  clergyman— Halifax, 
please  don't  forget.  I  was  a  teacher,  which  is  true. 
I  have  always  taken  care  of  you.  We  are  Craigs, 
and  I  am  the  widow  of  the  principal  of  the  St.  Jude 
Academy  near  Halifax.  You  have  been  unable  to 
bear  the  harsh  climate  of  Canada.  As  concerns  my 
life,  bury  it  and  be  careful.  This  is  our  last  chance. 
It  may  prove  a  good  one,  and  it  is  all  very  simple; 
only  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  you." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  71 

He  did  not  see  why,  but,  promising  all  things,  he 
went  away  to  Philadelphia  by  the  noon  train. 

This  man— he  was  now  twenty-five,  but  looked 
quite  boylike — was  of  a  nature  the  reverse  of  com- 
plex; a  mild  animal  with  male  instincts,  with  crude 
appetites,  lazy  in  mind  and  body — a  man  without 
thought  of  to-morrow,  and  for  whom  yesterdays  were 
valueless.  He  was  attached  to  his  sister  by  habit 
and  necessity.  He  had  come  by  degrees  to  under- 
stand her  and  her  ways,  and  indeed  knew  more  of 
them  than  she  liked.  He  laughed  as  he  left  her. 

' '  I  wonder  what  she  is  up  to  now, ' '  he  said. 
"  No  one  who  writes  or  has  written  of  men  has  ever 
completely  unraveled  to  perfect  clearness  the  tangle 
of  one  human  life.  Even  the  lesser  task  of  describ- 
ing the  face  and  form  so  as  to  identify  an  indi- 
vidual is  no  easy  task.  As  a  rule,  the  greater  mas- 
ters have  left  these  personal  details  to  the  hearer's 
imaginative  helping.  For  some  people  there  was 
repulse  and  not  invitation  in  the  curiously  faultless 
features  of  Lionel  Craig.  It  was  a  face  on  which 
time  did  not  readily  write  its  records,  good  or  bad, 
and  which  it  had  so  far  left  uncharactered. 

John  Fairthorne  once  said  to  Mary  that  the  world 
was  a  fleeting  show  and  all  of  us  merely  its  more 
or  less  well-trained  animals.  When  she  replied, 
being  then  of  the  age  of  sixteen,  that  she  was  not 
an  animal,  he  advised  her  to  adjourn  opinion  until 
she  was  a  mother,  which  sent  her  away  reflective. 

Lionel  Craig  was  certainly  an  animal,  but  nearly 
incapable  of  assimilative  use  of  training,  moral  or 
mental.  He  had  the  cunning  of  his  kind. 


IX 


|P  we  be  the  sport  of  chance-bred  circum- 
stance, it  is  no  more  strange  than  any 
uninfluential    fact   that  beside  Lionel 
Craig  there  were  on  the  noon  train  two 
persons  who  would  in  time  gravely  af- 
fect each  other's  fates. 

When  Sydney  Archer,  returning  from  a  consulta- 
tion in  New  Jersey,  caught  the  express  at  Elizabeth, 
he  found  no  seat  except  in  a  rather  crowded  smok- 
ing-car. His  custom  was  to  smoke  only  after  the 
day's  work  was  over,  but  now,  accepting  the  joy  of 
breaking  a  dutiful  habit,  he  found,  as  the  tempted 
do,  an  ally  in  a  cigar  forgotten  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  He  bent  over  the  seat  in  front  of  him  and 
asked  a  light.  A  sun-darkened  young  man  replied : 
' '  I  have  no  match.  Won 't  my  pipe  do  ? "  Archer 
said: 

"Yes,  but  it  is  quite  a  bit  of  art  to  get  a  light 
from  a  pipe."  The  owner  of  the  pipe  said  he 
had  n't  noticed  that,  and  it  could  n't  hurt  the  pipe. 
Said  Archer,  smiling: 

"But  it  can  put  it  out,  and  the  man,  too."     The 
young  fellow  did  not  rise  to  this  small  joke,  and 
made  no  reply,  which  pricked  Archer  into  continu- 
ing an  aborted  talk.     Leaning  over  the  half-occupied 
72 


CIRCUMSTANCE  73 

seat,  he  got  a  side  look  at  an  ugly,  rugged,  resolute 
face. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  with  the  soft  tongue  and 
courteous  ways  of  his  Southern  breed;  "I  see  that 
I  have  actually  put  out  your  pipe— I  thought  I 
should.  You  must  pardon  me." 

"Well,  I  am  not  any  put  out."  He  stated  it  as  a 
fact,  not  in  any  relation  to  Archer's  mild  jest.  "I 
have  smoked  all  I  want."  Then  he  looked  out  of 
the  window  at  the  cheerful  landscape  of  New  Jersey. 
Archer  tried  again: 

"Queer  phrase,  that  of  a  man  being  put  out." 

"I  don't  know.     Is  it?" 

Archer  gave  up.  The  man  must  be  stupid.  He 
was  not,  though  he  was  a  slow  thinker,  and  socially 
to  be  defined  as  a  strong,  untrained  creature,  crude, 
capable,  observant— a  man  who  had  led  a  rather 
lonely  life.  After  a  full  half-minute  of  silence  he 
turned  and  showing  in  full  the  big-featured  face  and 
somewhat  tender  eyes,  said  slowly: 

"To  say  you  are  put  out  can't  mean  that  you  are 
pushed  out  of  temper,  as  if  a  fellow  put  you  out  of  a 
quiet  place  you  were  in." 

Archer  sat  up,  attentive.  He  was  a  student  of  his 
kind. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"Because  no  man  can  shove  me  out  of  my  temper 
if  I  want  to  stay  there." 

Archer,  delighted,  was  about  to  take  the  vacant 
seat  beside  his  comrade  of  the  minute,  when  he  was 
anticipated  by  an  over-dressed  young  man  who  said 
to  the  sun-burned  one,  "Sorry  to  trouble  you,"  and 


74  CIRCUMSTANCE 

sat  down  beside  him.  The  other  made  room,  but  did 
not  speak.  Presently,  however,  he  became  interested 
in  his  neighbor,  who,  to  make  things  easier  to  state, 
we  may  say  was  Lionel  Craig.  The  new-comer  un- 
locked a  large  bag  which  he  had  set  at  his  feet.  It 
was  a  rather  luxuriously  furnished  dressing-case,  and 
at  once  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  other  young  man. 
Craig  turned  over  its  untidy  contents,  opened  a  sil- 
ver-topped cologne  bottle,  put  a  little  on  his  handker- 
chief, selected  a  large  cigar  from  a  foolishly  heavy 
silver  case,  and  asked  his  neighbor  for  a  match. 
Finding  that  he  had  none,  Craig  tumbled  over  the 
gloves  and  brushes  and  coming  upon  a  little  gold 
match-safe,  shut  up  his  bag  and  smoked  in  silence, 
while  he  looked  over  the  society  news  and  comments 
of  the  "Daily  Gossip."  At  last,  that  edifying 
amusement  failing,  be  turned  toward  the  sun-burned 
man.  Archer  saw  the  two  contrasted  side  faces,  the 
large,  well-clad  head,  the  big  features,  with  hardly 
enough  of  facial  space,  and  beside  him  the  richly 
colored,  clean-shaven  delicacy  of  the  new-comer,  with 
a  thinner  crop  of  black  hair.  It  was  easy  to  hear 
their  talk. 

"Not  a  strong  face,"  thought  the  doctor.  "I 
would  bet  on  the  brown  paws  and  dirty  nails  against 
the  gloves."  They  were  too  fine  for  travel  and  mere 
protective  use. 

The  sun-burned  man  seemed  to  talk  easily  enough 
to  Craig.  At  last  he  said : 

"Do  you  know  Philadelphia  well  enough  to  tell 
me  where  I  could  get  cheap  board?" 

"No,  I  am  a  stranger.     I  have  the  address  of  a 


CIRCUMSTANCE  75 

house  where  I  have  taken  rooms.  I  prefer  a  hotel, 
but  this  is — well,  a  rather  unusual  kind  of  boarding- 
house.  You  see,  in  this  city  ladies  who  have  lost 
means  sometimes  resort  to  this  way  of  earning  a 
living.  But  it  is  not  at  all  cheap." 

"Then  it  won't  suit  me." 

"You  might  try,"  said  Craig,  "the  Misses  Mark- 
ham,  290  Pine  Street.  Here  is  their  card;  queer 
for  boarding-house  keepers  to  have  visiting-cards." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  other.  "I  never  had  one 
myself,  but  there  is  no  law  against  it,  I  suppose. ' ' 

"No,  of  course  not."  By  and  by  the  other  asked 
casually : 

"Are  you  traveling?"  Most  of  the  over-dressed 
men  he  had  met  in  smoking-cars  had  been  drummers. 
Mr.  Craig  said  shortly,  yes,  he  was  traveling,  of 
course. 

' '  In  what  line  ? ' '  asked  the  other. 

"Oh,  damn  it!     I  'm  not  in  trade." 

"I  guessed  you  were."  Then  it  seemed  to  him 
natural  that,  having  asked,  he  should  give.  He 
added: 

"My  name  's  Martin  Blount.  I  am  going  to  study 
medicine  at  the  university. ' ' 

Mr.  Craig  said: 

"It  must  be  rather  an  unpleasant  business,"  and 
with  no  more  words,  having  smoked  his  cigar,  he 
picked  up  his  bag  and  went  back  to  the  car  he  had 
left.  Archer  took  his  vacant  seat,  saying: 

"You  puzzled  me,  Mr.  Blount.  I  am  Dr.  Sydney 
Archer. ' '  A  large  smile  occupied  the  young  fellow 's 
face. 


76  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Why,  now,  I  'm  right  pleased,  sir,  to  see  you," 
and  he  wrung  the  offered  hand  with  too  efficient  cor- 
diality. "  I  took  your  advice. " 

' '  Well,  and  pray  what  was  it  ?     I  forget. ' ' 

"I  guess  you  might  forget  a  good  lot  of  kindness, 
and  remember  enough  for  nest-eggs."  Archer, 
amused,  repeated  his  query: 

"But,  really,  what  was  it?" 

"Well,  sir, — don't  you  remember? — I  came  to  see 
you  last  spring.  I  wanted  a  scholarship  in  the  uni- 
versity, and  you  said  that  required  one  foreign  lan- 
guage besides  the  other  qualifications.  So  I  learned 
German  this  summer— I  had  some  Latin.  I  came  on 
early  in  September  and  got  in  number  two." 

"But  you  are  late  at  the  work;  the  session  begins 
in  October." 

"That  's  so.  I  was  keeping  hotel  books  at  Old- 
field,  and  my  time  was  n't  out  till  November.  I 
shall  make  it  up." 

"Where  do  you  mean  to  live  in  the  city?" 

"I  guess  I  can  get  a  garret  somewhere." 

"I  think  that  if  you  will  go  and  see  the  Misses 
Markham  and  give  them  my  card  they  will  contrive 
to  make  a  place  for  you — at  least  for  the  time  needed 
to  look  about  you.  I  will  see  them  later." 

"Why,  that  is  the  same  house  that  fellow— that 
fellow  with  the  bag — was  going  to."  Archer  saw  the 
obvious,  unuttered  difficulty. 

"Take  what  they  offer.  I  shall  see  them  in  a  day 
or  two.  They  are  good  women,  and,  I  chance  to 
know,  have  at  present  a  half-empty  house.  Here  is 
my  card."  He  wrote  a  few  lines  upon  it.  "It  was 


CIECUMSTANCE  77 

Dr.  Bergwynn  sent  you  to  me,  I  remember  now. 
He  said  you  were  the  son  of  an  Andover  professor, 
an  orphan." 

"Yes,  sir;  I  never  saw  my  father  or  mother." 

"And  how  is  it  as  to  money?  With  the  help  of 
the  scholarship  can  you  manage?"  The  brown, 
good-humored  face  set  hard. 

"I  Ve  got  to  manage. ' '  Archer  was  too  tactfully 
wise  to  say  more. 

"Come  and  see  me.  Ah,  here  we  are,"  he  said,  as 
they  ran  into  the  station.  "Be  sure  to  go  to  Miss 
Markham  's. ' ' 

In  the  mid-afternoon  Mr.  Lionel  Craig  was  left  in 
the  front  parlor  of  a  large,  old-fashioned  Georgian 
house  on  Pine  Street.  He  was  somewhat  surprised, 
and  for  a  little  while  thought  he  had  mistaken  the 
number.  It  was  a  paneled  room,  painted  white. 
There  were  portraits  by  the  elder  Peale,  Copley,  and 
two  by  Jarvis,  set  against  wall-paper  which  was  laid 
on  in  squares,  each  a  gay-tinted  fox-hunt.  The 
wooden  mantel  held  four  tall  Wedgwood  vases.  A 
corner  cupboard  was  filled  with  Dresden  cups,  with 
a  background  of  buff-and-gold  Nankin  plates,  and 
on  top  stood  a  huge  china  punch-bowl,  with  the  name 
' '  Robt.  Markham,  1783, ' '  and  a  coat  of  arms.  Craig 
sat  down  in  one  of  the  dignified  arm-chairs  of  old 
mahogany,  and  began  to  look  about  him  at  the  rather 
grim  gentlefolks  who  would  have  seemed  to  any  one 
else  to  suit  so  well  the  room  and  its  furniture.  He 
had  an  uneasy  sense  of  being  in  the  wrong  place. 

He  meant  to  be  particular  about  his  room.  That 
was  desirable,  in  order  to  make  people  feel  at  once 


78  CIRCUMSTANCE 

the  position  and  wants  of  a  gentleman.  Of  course, 
there  must  be  a  bath-room  near  it,  and  sun  was  de- 
sirable. He  would  ask  about  that.  He  had  again 
a  slight  shock  of  surprise  as  he  rose  on  the  entrance 
of  two  ladies. 

The  elder  woman  wore  over  her  gray  hair  a  lace 
cap.  A  closer  observer  than  Craig  would  have  seen 
that  her  delicate  features  bore  the  look  of  fatigue 
and  care.  The  sister  was  slighter.  She  was  pos- 
sibly near  to  thirty,  and  might  once  have  been  a  very 
pretty  girl.  Trouble,  work,  and  anxiety  had  not 
spared  her,  but  the  somewhat  critical  look  she  turned 
on  Craig,  who  had  brought  in  with  him  his  precious 
bag,  was  not  devoid  of  either  intelligence  or  a  sub- 
dued expression  of  amusement.  Except  for  the 
elder  sister's  cap,  they  were  dressed  precisely  alike 
in  some  soft,  gray,  silken  stuff.  The  younger  woman 
had  opened  the  door  and  stepped  back  to  let  her 
sister  enter  the  room. 

"I  am  Mr.  Craig/'  said  Lionel.  Miss  Markham 
put  up  a  pair  of  gold  eye-glasses,  as  she  returned : 

' '  Quite  so.  We  expected  you.  Mrs.  Hunter  wrote 
to  us,  and  as  Miss  Morrow  is  her  friend  we  consented 
to  receive  you." 

"Yes,"  said  the  younger  lady,  "we  consented." 

"Pardon  me,  I  should  have  said  I  am  Miss  Mark- 
ham,"  said  the  elder  woman;  "my  sister,  Miss  Clem- 
entina— you  will  kindly  show  Mr.  Craig  his  room. 
We  are  sure  you  will  be  comfortable.  Miss  Clemen- 
tina will  tell  you  our  meal  hours.  You  will  excuse 
us  if  we  say,  as  you  are  young  and  we  rarely  have 
young  people  with  us,  that  we  like  them  to  be  punc- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  79 

tual.  In  fact,  and  you  will  pardon  me,  we  rather 
insist  on  it." 

"Yes,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Craig,  somewhat  em- 
barrassed. 

"And  of  course,  sister,"  said  Miss  Clementina, 
"Mr.  Craig  will  understand  that  we  are  old-fash- 
ioned folks  and  particular — " 

"We  hope,"  said  Miss  Markham,  "that  you  do  not 
use  tobacco— of  course,  I  mean  smoke,  Clementina." 

"Yes,  we  mean  smoke,"  said  that  lady;  "or,  at 
least  not  in  our  house. ' ' 

Craig  said : 

' '  Oh,  no ! "  feeling  that  he  was  by  no  means  dic- 
tating terms.  Then,  rallying  his  forces,  he  thought 
it  desirable  to  put  these  boarding-house  women  in 
their  proper  places.  He  said: 

' '  I  will  look  at  your  rooms  before  I  decide,  and  of 
course  there  must  be  a  bath-room  on  the  same  floor." 

"Mr.  Wilson  has  our  only  bath-room,"  said  Miss 
Markham;  "you  will  of  course  have  a  bath-tub  in 
your  room.  We  have  given  you  a  room  because  Mrs. 
Hunter  is  commended  to  us  by  Miss  Morrow.  There 
is  no  choice  of  rooms,  as  we  have  but  one  for  you 
and  one  for  Mrs.  Hunter." 

Mr.  Craig,  somewhat  disconcerted,  said: 

"Oh,  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right." 

"May  I  ask  you  to  follow  me?"  said  Miss  Clemen- 
tina. 

The  exquisite  neatness  of  the  third-story  back 
room,  into  which  he  was  shown,  pleased  his  taste,  and 
he  refrained  from  further  critical  inquiry. 

"I  think  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied,  Miss  Markham." 


80  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Miss  Clementina,"  she  corrected,  pleasantly 
smiling. 

"What  time  do  you  have  supper?" 

"We  dine  at  half  after  six.  Our  friend  Mr.  Wil- 
son, on  the  second  floor,  dines  at  his  club.  You  will 
have  time  to  change  your  clothes  before  dinner,  but 
if  your  trunk  does  not  arrive  we  shall  not  mind  it 
for  to-day." 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Craig. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Clementina,  thinking  what 
a  pretty,  self-important  little  man  he  was.  "You 
will  find  the  clock  on  the  stair  correct.  My  sister 
is  particular  as  to  the  hours  of  meals.  I  will  have 
your  trunk  sent  up." 

When  Miss  Clementina  found  Miss  Markham  in 
the  parlor,  that  lady  said : 

"Well,  dear,  will  he  suit  us?" 

"I  fear  not.  An  underbred  young  man  and  pre- 
tentious," returned  the  sister. 

"I  was  not  favorably  impressed,"  said  Miss  Leti- 
tia.  "I  do  not  like  these  girl-faced  men.  He  will 
have  to  be  kept  in  his  place,  Clementina." 

"Yes,  we  must  keep  him  in  his  place,  Letitia.  It 
is  unfortunate.  Perhaps  we  may  have  to  send  him 
away." 

"We  must  hope,  Clementina,  that  Mrs.  Hunter 
may  be  nicer.  Plain  people  are  well  enough,  but 
common  people  cannot  be  endured. ' ' 

"Do  you  suppose  Katherine  Morrow  knows  this 
young  man?" 

"Perhaps  not.     We  may  have  been  hasty,  Clemen- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  81 

As  she  spoke,  Martin  Blount  entered.  He  had 
walked  across  the  great  city,  carrying  his  not  too 
heavy  portmanteau.  He  had  paused  to  look  through 
the  iron  gate  of  St.  Peter's  at  the  crumbling  tomb- 
stones. He  had  seen  the  tall  form  of  Mary  Fair- 
thorne  on  a  big  thoroughbred  and  wondered  why 
she  was  followed  by  a  groom.  He  had  used  his  eyes 
well.  That  he  was  dusty  and  begrimed  with  travel 
did  not  trouble  him,  as  it  had  done  Lionel  Craig. 

"I  am  Martin  Blount,"  he  said,  "and  here  is  a 
card,  ma'am,  from  Dr.  Archer.  I  hope,"  and  he 
looked  with  wistful  doubt  about  the  parlor,  "I  do 
hope  you  can  take  me  in." 

"Take  him  in!"  murmured  Miss  Letitia,  as  she 
read  the  card.  "I — do  suppose  we  must  manage." 
She  was  somewhat  annoyed.  Dr.  Archer  had  been  a 
faithful,  helpful  friend,  but  the  last-comer  had  tried 
the  little  gentlewoman  shrewdly.  She  said : 

"Sit  down,  while  I  talk  to  my  sister.  You  will 
excuse  us — " 

"Why,  of  course ;  I  am  not  in  any  hurry." 

The  two  ladies  went  out.  Then  he  began  to  use 
his  eager  eyes.  When  they  returned  he  was  looking 
at  a  portrait  over  the  mantel.  For  the  minute  this 
alone  interested  him.  He  did  not  wait  to  hear  their 
conclusion,  but  said : 

"Now,  that  's  a  right  strong  face."  He  could 
have  said  nothing  better.  Miss  Markham  returned : 

"Yes,  that  is  Major-General  Markham,  and  this  is 
his  grandson,  who  was  killed  in  the  action  between 
the  Constitution  and  the  Java." 

"And  that?"  said  Mr.  Blount,  with  increasing  in- 


82  CIRCUMSTANCE 

terest,  pointing  out  a  miniature  which  hung  below 
the  general. 

"That  is  our  brother.  He  fell  at  Fredericks- 
burg." 

"At  Fredericksburg.  He  was  our  only  brother," 
echoed  the  sister. 

"Let  us  talk  of  what  we  can  do  for  you,"  said 
Miss  Markham. 

"I  think  I  just  ought  to  say  right  at  once  I  can't 
afford  to  have  a  room  in  a  house  like  yours.  I  can 
afford  to  pay  five  dollars  a  week.  It  's  too  like  a 
home,  miss— I  can't  afford  a  home.  I  just  want  a 
room  and  breakfast.  I  guess  I  '11  have  to  eat  dinner 
somewhere  near  the  college." 

"Miss  Clementina  and  I  have  consulted,  and  we 
know  that  Dr.  Archer  meant  us  to  take  you,  or  at 
least  for  a  time.  We  can  give  you  breakfast  and  an 
attic.  We  are  sorry  it  must  be  only  an  attic.  Dr. 
Archer  says  you  will  be  satisfied  with  that." 

"And  a  stove,"  said  Clementina. 

"And  a  stove,"  repeated  Miss  Markham,  "and 
breakfast.  You  will  take  your  other  meals  outside, 
you  say.  We  think  you  said  so  ? " 

"Yes,  the  college  is  far  from  here."  He  found  in 
that  an  excuse. 

"Then  Miss  Clementina  will  show  you  your 
room."  He  was  overjoyed,  gratefully  satisfied  with 
the  old  house  and  the  two  women. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  followed  the  neat 
little  lady. 

When  again  Clementina  came  back  she  said : 

"It  is  getting  to  be  dreadfully  like  keeping  a 


CIECUMSTANCE  83 

boarding-house.  We  have  been  making  believe 
to-" 

"And  we  will  still  make  believe,  till  we,  too, 
change  our  lodgings,  dear,  for  a  better.  The  young 
man  is  plain,  but  not  common." 

"He  is  very  uncommon,  sister.  Is  it  too  late  for 
service  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

For  the  next  few  days  Mr.  Craig  idled  about  the 
city,  waiting.  Martin  Blount  threw  himself  eagerly 
into  the  early  studies  of  his  profession.  He  used  his 
days,  and  sat  up  so  late  that  Miss  Clementina,  trou- 
bled about  candles,  put  a  lamp  in  his  room. 

Clementina  had  long  been  accustomed  to  accept 
the  position  of  a  younger  sister,  and  to  yield  to  the 
will  and  ways  of  Letitia,  who  was  always  too  weary 
to  talk,  and  read  little  except  her  Bible.  She  was 
'not  strong,  and  sometimes  submitted  to  having  her 
breakfast  sent  up  to  her  little  room  in  the  "back 
building, ' '  as  Philadelphians  call  it. 

Craig  ate  fast,  and  went  out  as  soon  as  he  could 
to  smoke.  He  rarely  returned  until  after  dinner. 
Martin  Blount  was  apt  to  linger  over  his  break- 
fast. With  his  shrewd,  observant  ways  and  varied 
interests,  he  pleased  Clementina,  who  loved  books  and 
good  talk,  and  had  small  leisure  for  visits.  He  soon 
told  her  his  story,  and  the  kindly  heart  of  the  woman 
began  to  take  pleasure  in  helping  the  courageous 
young  fellow.  She  went  over  his  clothes,  and 
mended  shirts  and  darned  socks  or  sewed  on  buttons. 
At  last  she  bought  him  handkerchiefs.  He  told 
black  Judith  that  there  was  some  mistake,  and 


84  CIRCUMSTANCE 

wished  to  pay  her  for  the  astonishing  repair  of  a 
collar.  The  old  negress  laughed  and  said  no  one 
could  mend  like  Miss  Clementina.  "But  he  was  n't 
to  know  about  the  handkerchiefs,  not  on  no  ac- 
count." The  thoughtful  kindness  touched  him  as 
few  things  had  done. 

His  life  had  been  hard  and  had  hardened  the  man 
a  little.  Now,  having  fallen  among  friends  he  found 
it  strange. 

The  winter  began.  Dr.  Archer  saw  him  twice, 
but  was  too  busy  to  think  much  of  one  of  many 
struggling  students. 

A  week  after  Lionel  Craig  arrived,  his  sister  wrote 
to  Miss  Markham  that  she  preferred  to  go  to  a  hotel, 
and  should  not  need  the  room  reserved  for  her.  Her 
offer  to  pay  was  declined.  Her  brother  remained 
with  the  two  ladies,  and,  now  that  his  sister  was 
near,  was  kept  in  reasonable  order  by  the  promise  of 
better  things  and  by  contributions  of  money  she 
could  ill  spare. 


'BE  you  not  late,  Harry?"  said  Mrs. 
Swanwick  to  her  husband. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  looking  up  from  his 
paper  and  then  at  his  watch,  "but  I 
have  had  a  note  from  Mr.  Grace.     He 
wants  to  see  me  here  before  I  go  to  the  office." 

"I,  too,  have  an  appointment,"  she  cried,  gaily. 
' '  Mr.  Masters  wishes  to  consult  me. ' ' 

"Indeed,  I  shall  be  jealous.     Might  I  ask — " 

"No,  you  may  not.  I  never  reveal  professional 
secrets.  By  the  way,  Harry,  are  you  altogether 
satisfied  about  the  Republic  Trust?  You  talked  of 
it  last  month." 

"I  did.  I  think  I  said,  also,  that  by  accident  I 
found  out  that  Mr.  Underwood  had  been  twice  con- 
sulted by  Thurston." 

"Without  your  knowledge?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  n't  that  unusual?" 

"Yes.  It  is  sometimes  done,  but  not  secretly.  I 
should  be  consulted  first. ' ' 

"Is  he  a  reputable  lawyer?" 

"Well,  yes,  of  late  years.  Not  altogether— very 
able — sharp,  I  should  say." 

"Then,  as  you  observed,  Harry,  there  must  be 

85 


86  CIRCUMSTANCE 

something  wrong,  very  wrong— more  than  those 
bonds.  You  said  they  were  improving.  Uncle  John 
must  hold  a  good  deal  of  the  Republic  stock.  If 
they  are  doing  things  their  counsel  is  not  to  know, 
I — "  and  she  paused. 

' '  Quite  true,  dear.  It  does  look  suspicious.  What 
made  you  talk  of  it?" 

"Yes.  What  was  it?  Oh,  yes,  Dr.  Archer  said 
something  about  it.  Perhaps,  as  uncle  is  wrapped 
up  in  himself  and  his  autographs,  you  might,  as  you 
said,  look  into  the  matter  before  you  speak  to  him. 
Why  not  ask  Mr.  Grace?" 

"He  is  a  director.     It  would  never  do." 

' '  Oh,  indeed ! ' '  She  knew  it  very  well,  and  knew 
also  that  her  husband  was  amply  able  to  learn  all 
that  was  needed  and  only  required  to  be  made  a 
little  anxious. 

"Don't  resign  in  a  pet,  Harry;  not  yet,  anyhow. 
They  cannot  make  you  aid  any  wrong,  and  no  matter 
what  happens  you  are  above  reproach.  Wait  at 
least  until  there  is  something  more  definite.  Be- 
sides, being  counsel  enables  you  to  ask  questions  and 
learn  what  may  be  of  value  to  uncle." 

"How  did  you  know,  Madge,  that  I  thought  of 
resigning  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  you  innocent  dear ! ' '  she  cried.  ' '  How  long 
have  we  been  married?  There,  go;  I  hear  the  bell. 
If  Tom  Masters  comes,  send  him  up  to  me,  and, 
Harry,  do  let  me  see  the  paper  book  in  the  Bridge 
case.— Ah!"  she  sighed  as  he  went  down-stairs,  "I 
should  like  to  argue  that  case."  Then  she  said  to 
herself,  "I  have  a  half-hour,"  and  whistled  gaily,  at 


CIRCUMSTANCE  87 

which  signal  Jack  and  the  "Kid,"  as  he  called  her, 
made  tumultuous  descent  from  the  nursery  into  her 
arms  and  were  chased  into  the  library,  where  the 
three  rolled  about  in  undignified  joy  until  at  last  the 
little  lady,  gay,  glad,  and  very  red,  cried  as  Masters 
came  in : 

"Shoo!  Shoo!  Eun,  off  with  you!  Ah!  I 
would  rather  be  a  mother,  Tom,  than  chief-justice. 
Pardon  me,  I  have  been  the  prey  of  those  children. 
I  am  not  fit  to  be  seen.  Sit  down.  Are  the  ducks 
in  yet  at  Carroll's  Island?" 

"Yes,  I  am  off  to-morrow.  You  shall  have  your 
share  and  lend  me  Harry  next  week." 

' '  Not  I ;  he  must  work  for  his  living.  How  are  the 
old  aunts,  the  ladies  you  dare  to  call  the  white  mice  ? ' ' 

"Well,  are  n't  they  white  mice?  That  house  al- 
ways seems  to  me  like  a  mild  little  peep-show.  Aunt 
Letitia  is  like  a  gentle  ancestral  breeze  out  of  the 
country  of  long  ago,  and  Aunt  Clementina,  so  dainty, 
and  so  gentle —  " 

"And  sometimes  so  pretty,  in  spite  of  her  absurd 
notion  of  dressing  to  look  old.  I  wonder  if  Letitia 
does  really  like  that?" 

"Possibly.  Now  and  then  she  is  severe  with  our 
young  and  inexperienced  Clementina.  You  should 
hear  it." 

"They  must  have  a  rather  hard  struggle  at  times." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Margaret,  but  you  can't  help  them. 
I  could  manage  Clementina,  but  Aunt  Letitia— 
never!  The  last  time  I  ventured  Aunt  Letitia  re- 
turned my  check  in  a  formal  note,  and  actually  in 
the  third  person." 


88  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Not  really?" 

"Yes,  and  they  loathe  it  all,  and  make  believe,  like 
Miss  What 's-her-name  in  Dickens,  and  won't  take  a 
cent.  Now  they  have  a  fellow  there  like  a  small, 
I  painted  Apollo,  and  another  like  a  rather  nice  kind 
of  Caliban.  Aunt  Clementina  is  in  love  with  him. 
It  is  her  first.  Once  a  man  got  as  far  as — I  do  not 
know  how  far,  but  I  was  told  that  Miss  Markham 
ordered  him  out  of  the  house.  They  are  more  celi- 
batic  than  old  Knellwood.  By  the  way,  Margaret, 
I  think  the  reverend  bachelor  is  fairly  on  the  way  to 
trouble — " 

"What!  Cyril  Knellwood !  I  have  long  suspected 
it ;  but  how  can  she  ?  Oh,  Kitty ! ' ' 

"The  meshes  of  that  net  are  small.  No  fish  es- 
cape." He  spoke  bitterly  for  him,  but  he  was  now 
talking  to  his  nearest  friend  as  he  talked  to  no 
other.  Usually  he  took  his  defeats  sweetly,  but  Kitty 
had  gone  far  and  he  was  hurt;  as  he  said  to  him- 
self, ' '  pretty  badly  net-marked,  like  an  old  salmon. ' ' 

He  was  a  man  few  understood.  Mary  Fairthorne 
said  of  him  that  he  took  in  more  and  gave  out  less 
than  any  one  she  knew.  Men  who  had  been  with 
him  in  the  Wilderness  fighting  spoke  of  him  with 
pleased  remembrance.  He  read  immensely,  and  few 
suspected  it ;  he  gave,  and  none  knew ;  and  used  to  be 
called  the  club  grandfather,  because  to  him  the 
young  fellows  always  came  for  advice  or  aid.  In 
fact,  he  was  genially  constructed,  had  clear  notions 
as  to  duties  and  honor,  and  after  the  war  was  left 
stranded  without  distinct  ambitions  except  to  be  a 
first-rate  shot.  Why  no  woman  had  ever  said  yes 


CIRCUMSTANCE  89 

to  this  gentleman  Margaret  Swanwick  did  not  know. 
In  her  case,  Harry  had  blocked  the  way.  Mary  said 
it  was  his  excessive  reverence  for  women.  Margaret 
laughed,  and  admitted  that  there  was  something  in 
that,  but  that  it  did  seem  to  her  a  malady  easily 
cured. 

When  Tom  Masters  spoke  with  decent  reserve  of 
the  sad  ways  of  the  ever-impenitent  Kitty,  Mar- 
garet touched  his  arm  kindly : 

"We  are  none  of  us  good  enough  for  you,  Tom. 
Certainly  not  Katherine  Morrow." 

"Please  don't,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  but  I  must.  You  shall  never  marry. 
\/  Are  n't  you  my  Jack's  godfather,  and  everybody's 
uncle?" 

Margaret  Fairthorne  had  once  been  on  the  boun- 
dary of  a  love  affair  with  Mr.  Masters.  That  was 
long  ago.  She  had  yet  a  real  if  faintly  felt  dislike 
to  his  marrying,  although  had  he  declared  him- 
\/  self  engaged  she  would  have  joyfully  welcomed  the 
news. 

"Well,  I  want  your  help,  Madge,"  he  said;  and 
when  she  replied,  confidently : 

"Of  course,  Tom,"  he  added  that  it  was  n't  very 
easy. 

"The  fact  is,  Margaret,  Roger  Grace  is  afflicted 
with  social  ambition.  You  do  not  know  him — of 
course  not. ' ' 

"But  I  do,"  she  said;  "I  went  to  his  banking- 
office  yesterday  to  ask  if  he  would  help  our  farm- 
home  reformatory.  He  was  very  nice  about  it,  and 
said  he  would  think  it  over." 


90  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Oh,  is  that  so?  He  is  talking  to  Harry  now, 
down-stairs,  about  some  law  question." 

"And  what,"  said  Margaret,  "can  I  do  for  this 
man  of  millions,  poor  little  me?" 

"What  he  wants  is  to  be  put  on  the  Assembly  list. 
Why,  heaven  knows.  He  is  a  bachelor  of  forty  or 
thereabouts.  He  is  a  kindly,  generous,  plain  man, 
without  pretence.  Where  he  came  from  he  will  tell 
you  or  any  one  frankly,  but  he  does  not  boast  about 
his  rise  from  farmer  folk  in  the  Alleghanies.  I  ad- 
vised him  to  ask  Harry  Swanwick.  He  said  no,  that 
Mr.  Swanwick  was  his  counsel,  and  might  feel 
obliged  to  say  he  would  do  it.  Well,  anyhow,  Madge, 
he  said  that  he  saw  no  objection  to  my  speaking  to 
you — I  said  I  would.  But  why  do  our  newly  rich 
folk  want  this  kind  of  thing?" 

"They  ought  to  want  it,  Tom.  I  am  glad  they  do. 
Because  we  have  always  had  it,  it  seems  of  no  mo- 
ment. There  is  no  reason  why  Mr.  Grace  should 
not  have  the  subscription  book  sent  to  him.  I  am 
one  of  the  patronesses  this  year,  and  Harry  has  been 
a  manager.  He  hated  it,  and  I  am  sure  to  have  so 
often  to  say  no,  without  giving  a  reason,  must  make 
needless  enmities.  I  will  speak  to  Harry.  No,  if  I 
do  and  he  gives— I  mean  if  Mr.  Grace  gives  me  what 
I  asked,  will  it  not  seem  as  if — " 

"Yes,  perhaps.  Don't  do  it,  Madge;  I  will  say  a 
word  to  some  of  the  other  managers.  He  will  not  get 
in  this  year,  but  millions  win  at  last,  and  this  man  is 
quite  unobjectionable.  Let  us  leave  it.  How  is 
Jack  ?  Ah,  here  is  Harry— '  * 

"Mr.  Grace,  Madge.  I  suppose  it  is  about  that 
farm  school.  Take  care,  Grace,  she  is  greedy." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  91 

"Yes,  it  is  that.  I  want  to  know  a  little  more 
about  it, ' '  said  the  banker.  Roger  Grace  was  a  com- 
pactly built  man  in  the  early  forties ;  a  strong,  clean- 
shaven face  carried  the  jaw  and  chin  of  power,  with 
\/^some  unanalyzable  look  of  sadness  in  the  eyes.  He 
had  the  money-making  talent,  and  enjoyed  its  use. 
Of  late  he  had  found  out  that  the  pleasure  of  giving 
was  worth  the  attentive  care  he  soon  spent  upon  it. 
A  stainless  commercial  character  had  led  to  friend- 
ships which  in  turn  taught  a  receptive  nature  the 
taste  for  things  undreamed  of  in  the  busy  years  of 
laborious  effort.  With  ample  leisure,  he  began  to 
desire,  he  hardly  asked  himself  why,  the  life  of  a 
class  into  touch  of  which  he  had  come  by  degrees. 

Mrs.  Swanwick  fell  at  once  into  easy  talk  with  the 
banker  after  Masters  and  her  husband  went  away. 
He  asked  many  questions,  and  she  soon  knew  that 
the  whole  matter  of  the  discipline,  education,  and 
care  of  the  morally  imperfect  was  familiar  to  him. 
As  he  rose,  he  said: 

"But  there  must  be  also  flower  culture.  I  think 
that  of  use— of  real  use.  When  I  am  tired  or  trou- 
bled"—Mrs.  Swanwick  looked  up— "I  go  out  to  my 
flower-farm,  and  if  that  does  not  help  me  I  am 
past  remedy."  He  was  curiously  near  to  a  desire 
to  make  the  only  confession  of  his  guarded  life.  She 
was  in  fact  one  of  the  women  to  whom  the  heavily 
burdened  and  those  weary  of  struggle  turn,  assured 
of  aid  and  comprehension. 

This  woman,  with  her  well-bred  kindliness  and 
her  intelligent  compassion,  pleased  and  attracted  a 
man  who  was  slowly  finding  new  pleasures  of  heart 
and  mind,  and  discovering  in  his  own  nature  unused 


92  CIRCUMSTANCE 

resources  of  happiness.  He  looked  up  at  the  land- 
scape by  Inness,  and  spoke  of  its  having  sentiment. 
Then  he  laid  an  envelope  on  the  table,  and  said : 

"I  should  like  to  come  and  see  you  again,  and  to 
visit  the  school.  I  have  a  high  regard  for  your  hus- 
band, Mrs.  Swanwick.  I  suppose  you  do  know  what 
a  good  fellow  he  is?"  Margaret  laughed,  pleased 
at  the  blunt  praise. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said,  "but  I  like  others  to 
know  and  to  say  so. ' ' 

"By  the  by,"  he  said,  laying  a  large  hand  on  the 
envelope,  "I  wrote  a  check  at  once  after  you  left.  I 
shall  send  you  another  to-morrow.  That  will  be  for 
the  flowers.  I  want  also  to  say,  Mrs.  Swanwick,  that 
I  asked  Mr.  Masters  to  speak  to  you  about  the  Assem- 
bly. Curious  old  thing  that — ever  since  1740,  I  hear. 
That  interests  one  in  our  land  of  uneasy  change. 
Mr.  Masters  says  it  is  difficult.  I  hope  you  won't 
bother  about  it.  I  shall  get  there.  I  always  get 
what  I  want.  I  would  n't  like  you  to  think  that  I 
am  buying  my  way.  I  should  dislike  any  one  to 
say  that." 

"Please  don't,"  said  Margaret,  "no  one — no  one 
could  think  that.  May  I  use  your  name  as  the 
giver  ? ' ' 

He  said  yes,  if  it  would  be  serviceable.  After  this 
she  told  him  that  late  in  the  afternoons  she  was  likely 
to  be  at  home,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  him.  When 
he  had  gone  she  eagerly  opened  the  envelope,  and 
found  in  it  a  check  for  five  thousand  dollars. 

The  Assembly  business  was,  of  course,  discussed, 
and  as  usual  the  new  candidate  was  laid  aside  for 


CIKCUMSTANCE  93 

the  year.  Almack's  had  never  been  more  uncertain, 
nor  at  times  more  unreasonably  difficult. 

Mr.  Grace  was  shrewdly  observant,  and  was  getting 
to  understand  this  small  and  exacting  social  life, 
which  with  reluctance  admitted  the  claims  of  mere 
money.  He  reflected  a  little  on  his  way  to  his  office. 
He  felt  that  even  the  appearance  of  being  willing  to 
buy  his  way  into  the  life  he  desired  to  enter  was  not 
to  his  taste.  Accordingly,  when  he  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Swanwick,  inclosing  a  second  check,  he  said  that,  on 
the  whole,  he  preferred  not  to  have  his  name  asso- 
ciated with  his  gift  to  the  farm  home.  Mrs.  Swan- 
wick,  however,  had  already  mentioned  it  to  Mary, 
and  now  asked  her  why  he  had  so  changed  his  mind 
about  the  use  of  his  name?  To  this  Mary  replied 
that  he  must  be  a  nice  man  and  when  Madge  still 
wondered,  declared  that  if  her  elder  sister  only  pos- 
sessed as  much  imagination  as  intellect  this  would 
not  seem  a  hard  riddle. 

"Put  yourself  in  his  place,  dear,"  she  added,  "and 
you  will  know.  I  think  I  should  like  to  see  the 
man. ' ' 

Madge  said  neither  she  nor  any  one  could  put 
^themselves  in  any  other  person's  place. 


XI 


|OR  a  brief  time  Mr.  Lionel  Craig  was 
capable  of  self-restraint,  and  as  the 
funds  supplied  by  his  sister  barely  suf- 
ficed for  his  board  he  had  been  rea- 
sonably punctual  and  decently  be- 
haved. Moreover,  he  had  acquired  a  certain  respect 
for  the  ladies  in  whose  card-basket  he  recognized  the 
names  of  people  he  would  have  been  most  glad  to 
visit. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Hunter  was  biding  her  time  in 
New  York,  and  frequenting  libraries  where  she  could 
learn  all  about  these  people  with  historic  stories  and, 
what  she  valued  more,  long  purses.  Kitty's  letters 
had  begun  to  be  brief,  and  to  betray  less  eagerness. 
It  was  time  to  exert  a  nearer  influence  and  to  be 
within  reach  of  her  brother,  who  was  getting,  as  he 
reported,  anxious  to  obtain  employment.  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter knew  well  what  that  meant. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Morrow  had  a  variety  of  interest- 
ing occupations.  The  old  city  was  becoming  gay 
with  its  usual  moderation,  and  Miss  Morrow  danced 
as  few  dance.  With  this  she  combined  frequent  late 
services  at  St.  Agnes 's,  and  a  suddenly  developed 
interest  in  a  variety  of  matters  relating  to  the  ritual. 
Mr.  Knellwood  found  himself  constantly  consulted 
94 


CIRCUMSTANCE  95 

by  Miss  Kitty,  who,  with  other  young  women,  had 
organized  an  altar  fund,  and  found  it  needful  to  be 
guided  to  its  employment. 

Mr.  Knellwood  was  becoming  as  uneasy  as  St.  An- 
,  thony.  How  could  he,  even  to  a  brother  priest,  con- 
^  fess  a  trouble  which  was  fast  becoming  temptation? 
He  was  terrified  at  times  by  his  own  peril.  If  Mrs. 
Swanwick  and  her  sister  Mary  saw  what  Kitty  was 
about  they  took  no  step  to  interfere.  They  had  been 
thus  tempted  once  when  Mr.  Masters,  having  recov- 
ered from  unrequited  devotion  elsewhere,  had  been 
wickedly  taken  in  hand  by  Kitty,  who  assumed  the 
fatal  role  of  consoler,  and  ended  by  doing  more 
mischief  to  a  heart  hospitable  to  affection  than  she 
was  capable  of  imagining.  Mary  had  on  this  occa- 
sion expressed  herself  freely  to  Kitty,  who  sulked 
like  a  child  reproved  for  breaking  a  too  valuable  toy. 
Tom  Masters  came  nearer  to  hate  than  he  had  ever 
done  in  his  life,  and,  indeed,  said  "some  certain 
things"  to  Kitty  which  for  a  day  made  her  uncom- 
fortable, and  that  amiable  gentleman  still  more  so, 
until  he  had  written  and  apologized  for  his  intem- 
perate language.  All  of  this  he  had  confided  to 
Margaret  Swanwick,  who  said  something  in  high 
wrath  about  pearls  which  filled  him  with  amazement. 
He  had  very  meek  views  as  to  Tom  Masters 's  value, 
and  was  shocked  when  Madge  said  Kitty  was  a  vul- 
gar coquette.  Indeed,  she  had  small  affection  for 
her  cousin,  and  was  bored  to  the  limit  of  patience  by 
her  mindless  chatter. 

One  afternoon  this  mischief-making  bit  of  pretty 
instinctivity  called  on  Miss  Markham  to  bring  the 


96  CIRCUMSTANCE 

letter  in  which  Mrs.  Hunter  said  she  should  not  need 
the  room  kept  for  her.  When  she  entered  the  pan- 
eled parlor,  Miss  Clementina  was  seated  by  the  fire 
near  Martin  Blount.  Mr.  Craig  was  wearily  look- 
ing  out  of  the  window  at  the  red  brick  and  the  white 
snow-drifts  which  made  up  the  wintry  prospect  of  a 
November  day.  He  blew  a  mist  of  breath  on  the 
pane,  and  traced  figures  upon  it.  He  took  mild  in- 
terest in  the  way  the  old  wrinkled  glass  of  the  win- 
dow distorted  the  figures  of  men  shoveling  snow 
from  the  sidewalk. 

He  had  gone  out  to  walk  and  been  repelled  by  the 
brisk  company  of  the  north  wind,  for  he  liked 
warmth  as  did  his  sister,  but  had  no  such  pleasure 
as  she  found  in  mere  exercise. 

Martin  Blount  had  a  sore  throat,  and  had  been 
reluctantly  compelled  by  Miss  Clementina  to  remain 
at  home.  He  was  busy  with  a  leather-covered  text- 
book of  physiology  and  now  and  then  looked  up, 
with  his  difficult  smile,  to  say  to  his  anxious  hostess 
that  indeed  he  could  not  have  flannel  around  his 
neck— no,  not  even  red  flannel.  No,  he  should  be  all 
right  to-morrow ;  but  to  lose  a  day  of  lectures  was  too 
bad.  He  really  could  not  have  opodeldoc  and  his 
neck  rubbed.  Craig  became  for  a  moment  an  amused 
listener. 

"What  a  ridiculous,  fussy  old  maid,"  he  thought. 

The  other  man  saw  again  the  white  waste  of  a 
New  England  winter,  the  relentless  farm  life,  the 
scenes  of  hard  labor  and  temptation  in  lumber- 
camps,  his  friendless  youth.  A  sense  of  pleasant 
amaze  came  over  him  as  the  gentle  voice  recalled  him 


CIRCUMSTANCE  97 

from  these  sad  remembrances.  How  freshly  de- 
lightful to  have  a  home,  to  know  that  others  had 
kind  thought  of  and  for  him!  It  was  a  con- 
stant novelty.  He  had  never  seen  a  relative,  and 
had  never  made  a  friend  outside  of  the  books  for 
which  he  had  an  inherited  liking.  He  had  come  of 
a  breed  which  for  two  centuries  of  colonial  and  na- 
tional life  had  been  well  known  and  socially  of  the 
best  and  had  at  last  gotten  back  to  the  soil  whence 
it  came.  Now,  under  this  fostering  providence  of 
interest  and  kindness,  the  qualities  of  his  race  began 
to  feel  its  sunshine.  The  man  was  fast  becoming 
gentled. 

Miss  Morrow  came  in,  a  double-rose  from  the 
healthy  stinging  of  the  driven  snow.  Blount  got 
up  at  once,  and  Craig,  after  a  glance  at  the  new- 
comer, also  stood  up.  Miss  Clementina  said: 

' '  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Katherine.  Come  up-stairs 
with  me." 

Miss  Kitty  was  in  no  haste.  She  glanced  at  the 
ugly,  good-humored  face  of  Blount,  who  stood  a- gaze 
at  the  wonderful  prettiness  of  the  girl.  Then,  as 
she  saw  Craig  turn  from  the  window,  she  knew  at 
once  that  he  must  be  the  brother  of  whose  beauty 
and  accomplishments  Mrs.  Hunter  had  written  so 
much.  As  he  moved  forward,  he  hastily  thrust  in 
his  pocket  the  caricature  he  had  been  making  of 
Miss  Clementina's  placid  face.  Miss  Kitty  said 
promptly,  in  reply  to  Miss  Clementina: 

"I  have  only  a  moment.  I  have  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Hunter."  Miss  Clementina  had  small  liking 
for  the  over-dressed  lodger  with  the  too  exact  fea- 
7 


•JS  CIRCUMSTANCE 

tores  and  had  no  mind  to  present  him  to  Miss  Mor- 
row. She  rejoined: 

"My  sister  is  up-stairs." 

Mr.  Craig  saw  his  chance.  He  had  fairly  good 
surface  manners,  which  at  times  he  shed. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said;  "Miss  Morrow,  I  am  sure, 
will  excuse  me  if  I  present  myself  to  my  sister's 
friend.  I  am  Mr.  Craig." 

Miss  Morrow  was  glad  to  see  Mr.  Craig,  "who," 
she  said,  "perhaps  knew  that  Mrs.  Hunter  would 
arrive  next  day,"  and  with  a  word  or  two  more  she 
followed  Clementina,  thinking  a  little  as  she  went 
up-stairs  of  the  singular  resemblance  between  the 
brother  and  sister.  Craig  said,  as  the  door  closed : 

' '  By  George,  she  's  a  pretty  girl !  Got  a  look  of 
breeding,  of  distinction."  It  was  just  that  which 
Kitty  lacked.  As  he  went  on  talking,  Blount  said, 
as  he  opened  his  book : 

' '  Oh,  shut  up !  I  can 't  get  these  heart-valves 
clear.  Don't  bother  me!"  He,  too,  disliked  this 
pretentious  young  fellow,  who  came  up  to  his  attic 
and  borrowed  quarters  and  half-dollars  and  had  to 
be  asked  to  return  them.  When,  the  night  before, 
he  had  shown  Blount  Miss  Markham  cleverly  cari- 
catured on  a  postal  card,  Martin  had  angrily  torn 
up  the  drawing,  and  said  it  was  a  shame.  Craig, 
surprised  at  his  wrath,  hoped  he  would  not  speak  of 
it.  Blount  asked  if  he  thought  him  a  fool.  Craig 
laughed,  having  no  other  reply,  and  took  out  a  cigar, 
on  which  Blount  said : 

"Can't  smoke  here.  You  have  done  it  twice,  and 
Miss  Markham  made  a  row.  I  said  I  would  not  do 


CIRCUMSTANCE  99 

it  any  more,  and  now  please  to  leave  me  with  these 
confounded  bones.  You  would  make  a  lovely  skele- 
ton," he  added,  grimly.  "You  will,  some  day." 
This  was  obvious.  Craig  said : 

"Great  George!  you  're  darned  unpleasant  some- 
times," and  left  him. 

This  chanced  the  night  before,  and  now,  when 
Craig  found  no  idle  talk  was  to  be  had,  he,  too,  went 
up-stairs,  vaguely  hoping  to  meet  Miss  Morrow,  who. 
however,  had  done  her  friend's  errand  and  gone. 
As  Blount  wrestled  with  the  heart  movements  in  the 
gathering  dusk,  he  heard  Dr.  Archer  enter. 

"Why,  halloa,  Blount!  From  Miss  Clementina's 
note  I  supposed  you  almost  past  hope  or  medicine." 
.  "I  am  sorry,  sir,  Miss  Clementina  troubled  you. 
It  is  really  only  a  slight  cold.  It  's  just  all  of  a  piece, 
her  kindness.  I  can't  tell  you,  sir,  how  I  thank 
you  for  sending  me  here.  It  is  the  only  home  I  have 
ever  had;  and  as  for  Miss  Clementina's  goodness — " 

"The  good  God  so  made  her.  Now  that  I  am 
here,  let  us  see  what  is  wrong. ' '  He  went  on  to  study 
seriously  the  young  fellow's  condition,  saying  finally 
that  it  was  in  fact  of  small  moment.  Miss  Clemen- 
tina had  written  that  he  would  go  out  without  an 
overcoat,  and  why  was  that? 

Martin  replied  that  he  and  another  student,  who 
boarded  near  by,  had  only  one  overcoat  between 
them,  and  wore  it  day  about.  Archer  made  no 
comment,  but  asked  where  Blount  lunched. 

It  appeared  that  the  ladies  every  day  put  up  a 
small  basket  of  food,  having  heard  with  dismay 
how  and  where  he  had  taken  this  meal. 


100  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"And  what  of  dinner?"  queried  Archer,  curious. 
"You  stay  away  late." 

Blount  laughed. 

"Well,  sir,  West— that  's  my  overcoat  friend— he 
markets  one  week  and  I  the  next.  When  he  mar- 
kets, that  week  I  cook.  It  's  a  great  waste  of  time, 
but  it  is  fine  and  cheap." 

"And  where  do  you  cook?" 

"Well,  West  has  a  grate-stove,  and  the  people 
don't  mind  the  smell  of  fried  things.  It  would  n't 
do  here,  sir,  you  see." 

"Hardly,"  said  Archer.  "Stay  in  to-morrow— 
that  will  be  Saturday.  Come  and  lunch  with  me  at 
one  on  Sunday.  We  shall  be  alone.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

As  Archer  drove  away,  he  said  to  himself: 

"I  think  that  boy  wants  a  woman  friend,  and  for 
the  rest,  I  must  tap  somebody's  purse;  my  own  is 
rather  low.  He  is  having  a  needlessly  hard  time. ' ' 

When  Sydney  Archer  set  his  mind  on  anything 
worth  doing  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that 
he  kept  it  in  view  until  it  was  in  some  way  disposed 
of.  It  is  one  of  the  factors  of  success.  If  the  mat- 
ter were  small,  it  recurred  to  him  in  his  few  inter- 
vals of  leisure.  Any  larger  subject  fastened  itself 
upon  him  so  that  to  escape  it  or  leave  it  unsettled 
was  quite  impossible. 

When  he  said  to  himself  that  Martin  Blount  was 
worth  helping  he  had  in  mind  the  fact  he  well  un- 
derstood, that,  for  success  in  life,  Blount  needed 
in  some  way  to  be  socially  educated.  It  was  very 
like  Archer  to  make  so  unusual  a  reflection.  He 


CIRCUMSTANCE  101 

knew  that  tact  and  good  manners  in  his  own  pro- 
fession enormously  assist  the  essential  qualities  of 
mind  which  he  was  sure  the  young  student  possessed. 

As  Archer,  bent  on  finding  an  ally,  thought  over 
the  available  women  he  knew  well  enough  to  ask 
of  them  an  unusual  favor,  one  constantly  presented 
herself.  The  nature  of  Miss  Fairthorne  was  one  to 
which  the  social  evolution  of  a  man  like  Blount, 
with  good  ancestry  but  untrained  taste  for  the  re- 
finements of  life,  would  surely  appeal.  She  was 
more  imaginative  than  her  sister  Margaret;  but 
Archer  knew,  of  course,  that  what  he  required  was 
a  married  woman  who  could  be  made  to  share  his 
own  interest  in  this  very  intelligent  waif. 

Before  his  lunch  with  Blount  was  over  he  made 
up  his  mind  that  his  guest  had  a  rare  combination 
of  the  mental  and  moral  qualities  needed  in  the 
physician's  life— a  man  whom  it  would  be  both  a 
duty  and  a  pleasure  to  help. 

"Take  a  cigar,"  he  said. 

"No,  sir,  thank  you.  Miss  Markham  does  n't  like 
tobacco,  so  I  gave  it  up  for  the  time,  and  if  I  don't 
smoke  at  all  it  is  easier." 

"Then  you  are  happily  one  of  what  I  call  the 
'unhabituals,'  an  awkward  word  for  the  people  who 
can  make  and  break  at  will  a  custom  of  the  body." 

"It  does  not  seem  to  take  much  will." 

"Not  for  you,  or  for  me.  By  the  by,  I  spoke  of 
you  to  a  friend  of  mine,  a  great  banker,  and  he 
was  so  interested  that  he  would  like  to  talk  with 
you  a  little.  To  be  open  with  you,  Mr.  Grace  helps 
a  great  many  people  who  need  help." 


102  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  it,  and  I—  " 

"Wait  a  little.  You  wear  an  overcoat  only  on 
alternate  days ;  you  will  ruin  your  stomach  with  bad 
food ;  you  are  losing  time — at  least,  such  habits  will 
in  the  end  lose  you  time.". 

"That  is  so;  but—" 

"One  moment.  Grace  will  lend  you  money  enough 
to  enable  you  to  live  a  wholesome  life.  I  have  an 
overcoat  I  bought  which  is  too  big  for  my  breadth. 
Do  you  mind  taking  it?"  Martin  saw  through  the 
kindly  device,  but  said  at  once : 

"  I !  No,  sir,  I  shall  be  glad ;  but  about  the  money  ? 
Do  you  think  I  shall  be  right?  I — I  might  never 
repay  it. ' ' 

' '  I  am  asking  you  to  do  what  I  did  myself.  I  paid 
easily.  So  will  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Blount,  smiling,  "but  I  am  not  Syd- 
ney Archer." 

./  "No,  but  you  are  Martin  Blount;  and  if  I  under- 
stand character  aright  you  are  going  to  be  among 
the  winners  on  that  front  bench  folks  talk  about. 
Take  my  advice  and  take  the  money.  Go  to  see 
Mr.  Grace  to-night.  I  set  nine  as  the  time." 

"I  will  go." 

"And  so  must  I,"  said  his  host;  "sorry  to  turn 
\/  you  out.     Don 't  study  on  Sundays. ' ' 

"I  never  do.  I  have  too  much  preacher  blood  for 
that.  Miss  Markham  takes  me  to  St.  Peter's  in  the 
mornings.  When  I  said  I  had  been  a  Congrega- 
tionalist  for  two  hundred  years  she  said  that  she  did 
not  know  what  that  was,  but  that  it  certainly  was 
an  exaggerated  mode  of  stating  the  case.  I  would 


CIRCUMSTANCE  103 

go  to  a  mosque  if  she  asked  me.  In  the  afternoon 
on  Sundays  I  walk  all  over  the  country." 

The  rest  of  his  friendly  scheme  Archer  set  aside 
for  the  time,  until  he  could  interest  Mrs.  Swanwick. 

When,  that  evening,  Martin  Blount  found  Mr. 
Grace  in  his  own  home,  that  gentleman  said  to  him : 

''I  wanted  to  see  you,  after  what  Dr.  Archer  told 
me.  I  help  a  lot  of  incapables,  and  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  find  a  man  who  does  n't  want  help  and  ought 
to  have  it.  I  am  going  to  bet  on  your  success,  that 
is  all.  No,  don't  interrupt  me.  It  is  only  a  pleas- 
ant little  gamble.  You  will  call  to-morrow  at  my 
office,  and  then  the  first  of  each  month,  and  give 
them  my  card  and  your  name.  You  will  receive  a 
check  for  fifty  dollars.  My  clerks  will  know  nothing 
about  it." 

"But-" 

"Ah,  do  keep  quiet!  You  are  terribly  fond  of 
'buts.'  You  will  give  a  receipt.  This  will  go  on 
until  June. ' ' 

' '  I  said  I  would  take  it, ' '  said  Blount,  flushed  and 
embarrassed.  "But,  O  Lord — " 

Grace  rose. 

"I  want  to  say  to  you,  finally,  that  if  you  took 
this  help  easily  it  would  lessen  the  pleasure  I  have 
in  a  simple  duty.  You  have  had,  as  I  had,  a  hard 
life ;  let  me  feel  that  I  am  saving  a  good  man  from 
needless  risks.  And  now  good-bye;  I  'm  very,  very 
much  obliged  to  you." 

Martin  looked  up  at  the  clean-shaven,  vigorous 
face,  and  saw,  as  Mrs.  Swanwick  had  done,  some- 
thing pathetic  in  the  look  which  met  his  own  filling 


104  CIRCUMSTANCE 

eyes.  He  could  not  speak.  He  simply  wrung  the 
offered  hand  and  went  down-stairs  with  a  choky 
feeling  in  his  throat.  He  was  still  unused  to  kind- 
ness and  within  the  sturdy  young  fellow  was  the 
tender  heart  of  a  child  and  a  rare  talent  for  grati- 
tude. 


XII 


|N  the  afternoon  of  that  Sunday  a  very- 
different  meeting  took  place.  Mrs. 
Hunter  had  arrived  in  the  city  on  Sat- 
urday and  Lionel  Craig  called  to  see 
her  in  the  evening  at  the  hotel  she  had 
preferred  to  the  house  of  the  Misses  Markham.  She 
had  learned  from  Lionel's  letters  enough  to  make 
the  oversight  of  two  shrewd  maiden  ladies  seem  to 
her  an  undesirable  element  in  her  campaign. 

Lionel,  in  his  inefficient  way,  had  been  trying  to 
secure  some  kind  of  clerkship,  but,  having  only  cer- 
tain mildly  worded  certificates  from  the  college  of 
business  and  from  a  former  cautious  employer,  he 
had  so  far  failed.  As  usual,  his  sister's  hopefulness 
sent  him  away  with  the  belief  that  she  would  readily 
find  him  friends  and  a  fresh  mood  of  elation  pro- 
duced in  him  as  usual  the  feeling  that  he  could  now 
afford  luxuries.  He  stopped  at  the  hotel  bar  and 
bought  a  dozen  high-priced  cigars.  Whatever  made 
his  weak  nature  hopeful,  at  once  made  him  extrava- 
gant. 

Mrs.  Hunter  slept  late,  with  a  mind  at  ease.    After 

her  morning  bath  she  lay  down  on  a  lounge  in  her 

wrapper.     For  her,  also,  the  probability  of  success 

had  its  effect.     She  rang,  and  ordered  breakfast  in 

105 


106  CIRCUMSTANCE 

her  room.  Despite  vigor  of  mind  and  body,  she  was 
prone  to  yield  to  moods  of  self-indulgence.  Rich 
food  and  all  forms  of  luxurious  rest  she  found  pleas- 
ant, and  would  have  used  strong  scents,  such  as 
musk,  if  she  had  not  been  sure  that  to  do  so  sub- 
jected her  to  disagreeable  comment.  She  was,  how- 
ever, capable  of  much  temporary  sacrifice  of  her 
desires.  Power  she  liked  for  itself,  as  well  as  for 
any  practical  values  it  might  have,  as  people  like 
food  without  reference  to  its  nutrient  possibilities, 
and  here  was  one  source  of  weakness  which  she 
could  not  resist  and  did  not  always  apprehend. 

She  had  a  fondness  for  social  adventure  and  a 
pleasure  in  small  intrigue  such  as  many  men  have 
in  field  sports,  but  she  was  at  present  a  little  tired 
of  this  uncertain  existence.  When  first  she  met  Miss 
Morrow  she  had  no  distinct  views  as  to  her  own 
future,  until  as  the  girl  became  the  ready  victim  of 
her  flattery  and  she  heard  more  and  more  of  her 
expectations,  she  began  to  think  how  she  could  make 
use  of  so  easy  a  capture.  The  possibility  of  also 
preying  upon  an  old  man  came  to  her  by  degrees. 
It  was  for  her  no  novel  game,  but  it  seemed  as  yet 
only  an  experiment  worth  a  trial. 

She  read  lazily  "La  Cousine  Bette,"  being  a  good 
French  scholar,  or  lay  at  rest  with  half-closed  eyes, 
dreaming  her  favorite  day-dream  of  an  apartment 
in  Paris,  the  Bois,  and  the  opera.  She  had  seen 
Paris  for  a  month,  and  longed  for  it  again. 

In  the  afternoon  she  dressed  with  care  and  found 
her  way  to  John  Fairthorne's  house.  Miss  Morrow 
had  gone  to  Christ  Church,  St.  Agnes 's  being  under 


CIECUMSTANCE  107 

repair,  as  Mrs.  Hunter  knew.  Enjoying  the  dry, 
frosty  air,  she  walked  up  Second  Street,  and  finding 
it,  still  too  early,  turned  up  Arch  Street  to  the  grave- 
yard of  Christ  Church.  It  was  open  for  a  burial. 
She  wandered  about  for  a  half-hour,  looked  at  the 
grave  of  Franklin,  smiled  at  the  odd  epitaphs,  and 
glad  thus  to  have  escaped  a  part  of  the  service,  at 
last  went  thence  to  the  old  church  in  Second  Street. 

She  sat  down  in  a  back  pew,  and  soon  saw  amid 
the  scant  congregation  our  devout  Kitty.  At  the 
close  of  the  service  she  hastened  to  a  side  door,  and 
when  Kitty  came  out  was  bending  over  the  queerly 
worded  epitaph  in  which  Elizabeth  Ferguson  is  com- 
memorated. 

' '  Dear  Mrs.  Hunter ! ' '  cried  Kitty. 

"My  dearest  Katherine !  How  long  it  has  been, 
and  how  pretty  you  are,  child !  And  who  was  Eliza- 
beth Ferguson?  I  shall  like  to  think  that  when  I 
die  you  will  thus  remember  me."  She  pointed  to 
the  tombstone. 

"Don't  talk  about  dying,"  said  Kitty.  "I  hate 
tombstones,  and  as  for  Mrs.  Ferguson  you  must  ask 
uncle." 

Mrs.  Hunter  knew  all  about  that  unlucky  and 
captivating  maker  of  mischief  in  a  far-away  time. 

"Come,"  said  Kitty;  "you  must  go  home  with 
me.  If  uncle  is  not  lying  down,  you  must  see  him. 
Mary  is  out  in  the  country  with  Cousin  Margaret, 
at  a  farm  school.  She  goes  there  sometimes  on 
Sunday  to  teach.  It  must  be  an  awful  bore.  I  hate 
dirty  boys — poor  boys." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,   "that  is  one  of  the 


108  CIRCUMSTANCE 

trials  of  a  refined  nature,"  and  they  walked  on, 
talking,  until  they  reached  Kitty's  home.  The  am- 
ple house  impressed  Mrs.  Hunter  agreeably.  Yes, 
Mr.  Fairthorne  was  in  the  library,  and  without 
pause  Kitty  led  her  friend  up-stairs,  saying,  rap- 
turously, as  she  entered: 

' '  Oh,  Uncle  John !     Here  is  Mrs.  Hunter ! ' ' 

It  was  one  of  his  better  days.  Fixing  his  keen 
eyes  on  the  new-comer,  he  rose  and,  with  old-fash- 
ioned courtesy,  made  her  welcome.  He  liked  hand- 
some women.  She  caught  at  once  the  note  of  his 
formal  manner,  and  curtsied  slightly  as  he  took  her 
hand  and  bade  her  be  seated,  saying: 

"A  fine  day,  madam,  a  fine  day." 

"A  red-letter  day  for  me,"  she  replied.  "I  have 
long  hoped  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Kather- 
ine's  relations."  A  smile,  hardly  perceptible,  in- 
dicative of  some  latent  amusement,  put  Mrs.  Hunter 
on  her  guard.  She  had  just  sat  down  when  Felisa., 
the  cat,  moving  daintily  about,  suddenly  leaped 
upon  her  lap.  She  liked  cats,  and  said: 

"What  a  compliment,  Mr.  Fairthorne."  Again 
he  smiled. 

"Perhaps,  madam,  perhaps.  It  is  certainly  an 
unusual  compliment  on  the  part  of  Felisa.  I  am 
the  only  Fairthorne  she  cares  for.  She  has  occa- 
sional uncertain  flirtations  with  Kitty.  But  Kitty 
is  not  a  Fairthorne.  We  are  of  other  make." 

"I  was  for  half  an  hour  in  the  company  of  Fair- 
thornes  to-day,  as  I  wandered  in  Christ  Church 
graveyard.  I  should  be  afraid  if  I  owned  a  name 
like  yours  that  I  never  could  live  up  to  it."  He 
liked  the  implied  flattery. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  109 

"I  have  never  troubled  myself  much  as  to  that," 
he  said.  "I  have  no  genealogical  conscience,  or,  at 
least,  no  conviction  that  I  must  live  up  to  ancestral 
virtues.  They  were  uneasy,  urgent  folk.  I  am  mak- 
ing up  a  human  average  of  repose,  an  example  to 
my  restless  countrymen.  I  produce  nothing." 

' '  Oh,  Mr.  Fairthorne !  You  may  like  to  say  so, 
but  the  mind  that  produced,  years  ago,  that  interest- 
ing series  of  papers  on  the  influence  of  occupation 
on  handwriting  and  on  the  effect  of  different  lan- 
guages on  forms  of  script — "  The  old  man  was 
again  pleased. 

"Forgotten  stuff,  madam!  You  must  let  me  give 
you  a  copy." 

' '  Oh,  thank  you ;  and  with  your  autograph,  please. 
I  am  very  much  interested  in  autographs.  May  I 
not  some  day  hope  to  be  shown  your  collection?" 

"Most  gladly,  and  come  soon.  There  are  among 
them  some  letters  of  unusual  interest.  I  am  rear- 
ranging them  now  in  epochs. ' ' 

"How  delightful!" 

"My  difficulty  lies  in  the  fact  that  no  one  method 
of  classifying  them  suits  me. ' '  He  had,  in  fact,  that 
excessive  desire  for  method  which  sometimes  defeats 
its  own  purpose. 

Mrs.  Hunter  rose,  well  satisfied. 

"I  shall  take  you  at  your  word,  Mr.  Fairthorne." 

He  urged  her  to  stay  longer.  She  was  too  wise, 
and  excusing  herself  went  away  with  Kitty  to  her 
room,  while  the  old  man  sat  still,  with  a  pleasant 
sense  of  having  had  an  appreciative  visitor.  Then 
he  fell  asleep. 

When,  an  hour  later,  Mary  and  her  sister  Mar- 


110  CIRCUMSTANCE 

garet  Swanwick  entered  he  woke  up.  He  did  not 
like  to  be  told  he  had  been  asleep,  so  that,  mindful 
of  this,  Margaret  said : 

' '  Have  you  had  any  visitors,  uncle  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  she  has  just  gone — a  most  remarkable 
woman,  most  intelligent,  most  appreciative. ' ' 

"And  who  was  it?"  said  Mary. 

"I  told  you.     How  stupid  you  are,  Mary." 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  said  she,  laughing ;  ' '  but  as  you  did 
not  tell  us — ' ' 

' '  Oh,  well,  I  thought  I  did.     It  was  Mrs.  Hunter. ' ' 

"And  so  we  have  our  Kitty's  paragon  here  at 
last,"  said  Margaret.  "I  am  a  trifle  curious." 

' '  She  seems  to  have  an  interest  in  autographs  that 
is  rather  remarkable.  I  think  I  may  get  some  ideas 
from  her  as  to  methods  of  classifying." 

Mary  glanced  at  her  sister.  John  Fairthorne  had 
never  been  easy  of  approach  and  his  first  judgment 
of  strangers  was  apt  to  be  tinged  with  cynical  dis- 
praise. 

"Is  she  handsome,  uncle?"  asked  Margaret.  He 
said  cautiously: 

"Well,  rather,"  and  then,  rising,  he  said  he 
thought  it  was  time  for  his  nap,  and  so  left  them. 
It  was  now  near  dusk. 

"He  has  forgotten  his  drive  and  his  nap,"  said 
Mary;  "that  is  unusual  for  uncle." 

"A  total  stranger — a  woman  Kitty  has  picked  up, 
heaven  knows  why!  It  is  unlike  him,  altogether 
unlike  him.  Why  should  she  have  taken  to  Kitty 
so  abruptly?  Do  you  know  anything  about  the 
woman  ?  Tom  Masters  says  she  is  intelligent.  That 


CIRCUMSTANCE  111 

is  hardly  descriptive.  When  he  added  that  she 
dressed  well  and  had  a  neat  figure,  he  seemed  to  feel 
that  he  had  said  enough. ' ' 

"Did  you  ask  him,  like  a  good  Philadelphian,  who 
she  was?" 

"I  did  not,  but  Harry  did.  Tom,  I  am  given  to 
understand,  said  he  'd  be-something  if  he  knew — and 
what  did  that  matter?" 

' '  Certain  it  is  that  she  has  captured  Kitty,  inter- 
ested Mr.  Knellwood  and  now  has  pleased  Uncle 
John.  I  wish  I  could,  dear;  it  is  pretty  hard  here 
at  times." 

' '  Well,  we  ought  to  be  glad  that  he  has  found  one 
human  being  who  interests  him.  I  hope  she  will 
help  to  keep  him  in  a  good  humor.  Does  she  stay 
long  in  town  ? ' ' 

"I  do  not  know;  very  likely  Kitty  does." 


XIII 

I  HE  winter  had  begun  early  in  stormy 
earnest,  with  unusually  heavy  falls  of 
snow.  Archer  was  busy  and  made 
short  visits  to  Mr.  Fairthorne,  and  sec- 
ondary visits  of  varying  length  to  Kitty. 
Mr.  Knellwood  was  absent  while  his  chapel  was 
under  repair.  The  mild  gaieties  of  the  cold  season 
went  on  to  Kitty's  satisfaction.  Mr.  Grace  dropped 
in  now  and  then  at  Mrs.  Swan  wick's.  Lionel  Craig 
grumbled  in  a  small  way  and  idled,  a  purposeless 
man,  unless  to  crave  unearned  luxuries  may  be 
called  a  purpose. 

For  a  few  days  Mrs.  Hunter  contented  herself 

with  Kitty.     They  drove  together,  for  it  was  Kitty 

who   commonly   monopolized   her    uncle's    carriage 

when  bad  weather  forbade  his  driving.     Her  cousin 

Mary  preferred  a  walk  or  a  ride,  defying  all  weather. 

Mrs.  Hunter  waited.     Mr.  Fairthorne  seemed  to 

have  forgotten  her,  but  at  last  she  moved  the  pawn. 

" Kitty,  I  am  a  little  hurt,  dear,"  she  said,  ''that 

your  cousins  have  not  called  on  me."    Kitty  felt 

that  her  own  society  ought  to  satisfy  her  friend, 

but  when  that  lady  said  that  it  was  really  not  very 

respectful  to  Kitty,  the  latter  saw  fit  to  act  on  a 

hint  from  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  finding  her  uncle  one 

112 


CIRCUMSTANCE  113 

day  in  the  state  in  which  Kitty's  demonstrative  at- 
tentions were  agreeable,  she  said,  as  she  played  with 
his  hair : 

"Don't  you  think  Mary  ought  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Hunter,  uncle?  I  think  she  would  like  to  come 
often  to  see  you,  and  me,  too;  but,  of  course,  she 
feels,  you  know — "  here  Kitty's  memory  failed  her. 
She  paused. 

' '  Well,  what  the  deuce  does  she  feel  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  she  does  admire  you  so  much.  She  says  you 
are  the  best  talker  she  ever  knew." 

The  old  man  smiled  feebly.  He  was  this  day 
a  little  inert,  a  little  weary  of  a  life  he  had  made 
monotonous.  At  another  time  he  might  have 
turned  on  her,  cynically  critical  of  her  ill-played 
game. 

"Quite  right,"  he  said.  "Remind  me,  and  I  will 
see  to  it.  I  shall  insist  on  her  being  treated  with  re- 
spect. Where  is  Mary?  Send  her  to  me." 

Kitty,  pleased,  but  a  little  dubious,  found  Mary 
busy  in  her  room. 

"Uncle  wants  you,"  she  said. 

"What,  already?"  said  Mary,  rising.  "It  is 
hardly  ten. ' '  She  followed  Kitty,  who  was  too  curi- 
ous and  too  eager  not  to  desire  to  see  how  her  sug- 
gested scheme  would  work.  Mrs.  Hunter  really  cared 
little  that  Miss  Fairthorne  should  call.  Kitty  was, 
as  yet,  enough  her  friend ;  but  what  she  also  desired 
was  to  establish  some  closer  relation  with  the  uncle 
and  yet  to  seem  in  no  haste.  Miss  Fairthorne,  how- 
ever, had  seen  fit  not  to  call  on  her,  and  Mrs.  Hunter 
could  not  resist  the  wish  to  make  her  do  so.  She 


114  CIRCUMSTANCE 

had  been  wiser  to  have  refrained  from  the  use  of 
power  which  could  do  her  no  good. 

Mr.  Fairthorne  had  recovered  the  memory  of  a 
handsome,  appreciative  woman.  Kitty  kissed  and 
caressed  him  and  bored  him.  Mary  had  too  posi- 
tive views,  and  many  interests.  As  for  Madge,  she 
was  "too  damned  logical  for  a  woman."  As  he 
grew  more  feeble,  his  self-esteem  cast  off  the  gar- 
ments of  his  training  and  the  crude  appetite  for 
praise  grew  upon  him.  He  had  also  the  old  man's 
hidden  fear  of  loss  of  consideration.  He  said  to 
Kitty,  as  her  cousin  followed : 

"What  was  it  I  wanted  Mary  for?"  This  was 
more  than  Kitty  had  expected.  She  said  promptly : 

"I  do  not  know,  sir,"  but  she  colored  a  little  as 
she  told  her  lie,  and  this  did  not  escape  her  cousin's 
eye. 

"Why  do  you  lie,"  said  Fairthorne,  "you  little 
cat !  You  want  Mary  to  call  on  Mrs.  Hunter.  Quite 
right,  too,  quite  right.  I  wish  you  to  call,  Mary; 
I  desire  you  to  ask  her  to  dine.  I  need  intelligent 
society.  I  am  neglected  by  everybody." 

"If,"  said  Mary,  "you  want  me  to  call  upon  Mrs. 
Hunter  I  will  do  so." 

"Yes,  to-day." 

"Kitty  asked  me,  but  I  saw  no  reason  why  I 
should  call,  and  the  little  I  know  of  her—"  She 
checked  herself.  "I  did  not  know  that  Kitty  really 
cared  whether  I  went  or  not.  The  fact  is,  I  forgot 
all  about  it.  I  am  sorry  she  thought  it  necessary  to 
appeal  to  you.  I  will  call  on  Mrs.  Hunter— ' ' 

"And  ask  Margaret  to  call,"  he  said. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  115 

' '  That, ' '  said  Mary,  ' '  I  must  ask  you  to  do,  uncle. 
Is  there  anything  else?" 

"No,  that  is  all." 

That  afternoon  she  went,  but  she  was  not  eager  to 
find  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  was  relieved  to  hear  that  she 
was  out.  Happy  to  be  done  with  it,  she  walked  up 
Walnut  Street,  rejoicing  in  the  snow  and  the  blue 
sky.  Glad  of  a  change  of  human  company,  she  went 
on  to  her  sister 's  house.  Her  uncle  had  twice  recalled 
her,  and  had  kept  her  occupied  for  many  hours  of 
the  morning,  but  now,  tingling  with  the  wholesome 
freshness  of  the  winter  air,  she  felt  renewed  in  mind 
and  temper,  and  went  gaily  up-stairs.  As  she  en- 
tered, Madge  said : 

"Mr.  Grace,  Mary."  Tom  Masters  also  greeted 
her,  and  she  sat  down,  well  pleased  to  know  the 
banker  of  whom  Dr.  Archer  had  said  enough  to 
excite  her  curiosity  and  secure  her  esteem. 

"I  see  you  ride,"  he  said,  "and  in  all  weathers, 
Miss  Fairthorne,  and  are  fond,  too,  of  my  own 
favorite  resort — the  meadows  of  the  Neck." 

They  talked  of  how  much  it  was  like  Holland  and 
of  how  bad  the  roads  were,  and  at  last  he  said : 

"I  used  to  see  your  uncle  on  horseback,  but  I  sup- 
pose he  is  now  too  old;  a  pity  he  has  become  such 
a  hermit,  I  might  say  an  intellectual  hermit;  I 
fancy  he  never  did  take  any  large  interest  in  the 
life  and  politics  of  the  city." 

"Nor  of  the  nation,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  He  voted 
for  Lincoln,  but  has  never  voted  since,  and  what 
political  principles  he  has  he  inherited.  He  says  he 
is  a  Federalist." 


116  CIRCUMSTANCE 

' '  So  was  Washington,  and  I  think  would  not  have 
been  on  the  side  of  his  State  had  he  lived  in  those 
sad  sixties." 

"Do  you  yourself  take  any  keen  interest  in  poli- 
tics, Mr.  Grace?" 

"I?— of  course.     It  is  a  duty." 

Mary  Fairthorne  liked  the  imperative  way  in 
which  he  spoke. 

"I  wish  all  the  younger  men  shared  your  convic- 
tion ;  to  feel  as  strongly  as  I  do  and  to  be  absolutely 
without  voice  or  influence  is  most  unpleasant." 

"And  would  you  like  to  vote?"  he  asked. 

"I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not."  At  this  mo- 
ment Kitty  entered,  and  Mary,  amused  at  the 
thought  her  coming  suggested,  added : ' '  But  I  should 
like  to  choose  the  female  voters." 

"And  I  the  men,"  he  cried. 

Miss  Kitty  sat  down  between  Mr.  Masters  and 
Margaret. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Masters,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  saw 
you  at  the  Assembly,  but  we  had  not  even  one 
dance."  He  felt  this  to  be  brutal.  He  was  still 
sore  with  a  very  real  pain,  but  Miss  Kitty  was  like  a 
cat  which,  having  left  a  captured  mouse,  returns  at 
intervals  to  see  if  there  be  any  life  worth  sporting 
with.  Margaret  watched  her,  half  sorry,  half  dis- 
gusted. 

"I  wish,"  she  thought,  "that  Kitty  was  not  so 
obvious." 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Grace  asked  Miss  Pairthorne  if 
she  chanced  to  know  a  Mrs.  Lucretia  Hunter. 

"Pardon  my  question.     She  has  brought  her  bro- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  117 

ther  to  me,  and  wants  a  place  for  him  in  my  office.  I 
ask  you  because  she  gave  me  to  understand  that  she 
knew  you  all.  A  clever  woman,  I  thought.  The 
brother  did  not  impress  me  very  favorably.  I  rather 
think  the  sister  has  had  a  hard  life." 

Mary  was  at  once  on  her  guard. 

"She  is  a  friend  of  my  cousin,  Miss  Morrow.  I 
personally  do  not  know  her  well." 

"Then  I  must  ask  Miss  Morrow,"  he  said.  "How 
very  pretty  she  is."  He  was  feeling  with  all  the 
force  of  his  natural  but  untrained  refinement  the 
pleasantness  of  the  society  into  which  he  was  slowly 
finding  his  way.  Of  course  he  overestimated  what 
to  him  was  so  freshly  agreeable  and  when  Miss 
Kitty,  as  Masters  moved  away,  turned  upon  him 
the  fatal  artillery  of  youth  and  physical  loveliness, 
he  accepted  without  reserve  Miss  Kitty's  estimate 
of  her  friend.  When  he  spoke  of  the  brother  with 
some  doubt  Miss  Morrow  said  it  would  be  a  real 
charity  at  least  to  give  him  a  chance.  This  decided 
him,  and  he  readily  assented. 

"Now,  how  nice  it  would  be  if  I  could  tell  my 
friend  that  you  would  oblige  her — and  me,"  she 
added,  turning  her  childlike  blue  eyes  upon  the 
strong  face  of  Roger  Grace.  They  had  done,  in 
their  time,  much  wilful  mischief,  but  never  igno- 
rantly  so  much  as  now. 

"I  am  glad  to  oblige  you.  I  will  give  him  a 
chance. ' ' 

Kitty  thanked  him  warmly,  and,  after  further 
talk,  he  went  away  with  Miss  Morrow,  as  Dr.  Archer 
entered. 


118  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Your  uncle  is  very  wilful  to-day,  Miss  Mary," 
said  the  doctor.  "Do  you  see  how  fast  he  is 
changing?" 

"I  do.  His  love  of  method  is  at  times  really  a 
mania  and  no  method  suits  him  long.  He  used  to 
be  courteous  and  to  apologize  for  his  irritability. 
Now  he  never  does.  My  cousin  Kitty  has  a  love 
affair  with  him  one  day  and  the  next  drives  him 
frantic." 

"He  must  be  easily  vexed.  How  any  one  can 
quarrel  with  so  gentle  a  being  as  Miss  Katherine  I 
do  not  see. ' ' 

Mrs.  Swanwick  smiled  to  herself.  Mary  did  not 
smile. 

"It  is  strange  that  at  times  he  should  yet  be  his 
old  interesting  self,"  continued  Archer.  "He  talked 
to  me  very  long  about  Mrs.  Hunter,  Miss  Katherine 's 
friend. ' ' 

"Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Swanwick,  "I  suppose  we 
should  be  glad  that  she  is  willing  to  amuse  him. ' ' 

Mary  was  silent,  and,  after  some  less  personal  talk, 
Archer  asked  if  Mr.  Swanwick  was  at  home.  No,  he 
was  not.  The  women  discussed  the  Farm  School 
Home  and  minor  matters,  while  Archer  sat  still.  At 
last  Madge  said:  "You  are  quiet,  Sydney.  Are  you 
tired?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  was  only  indulging  in  the 
privilege  of  giving  my  tongue  a  holiday.  I  talk  all 
day ;  no  one  has  to  talk  as  much  as  a  doctor." 

"And  yet,"  said  Miss  Fairthorne,  laughing,  "peo- 
ple say  women  will  not  make  good  doctors. ' ' 

"They  can  be  anything,"  said   Margaret,   deci- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  119 

sively;  "if  they  should  be  is  quite  another  matter. 
As  I  see  it,  celibacy  is  essential  to  a  woman  doctor. 
You  cannot  compromise  with  this  tremendously 
natural  business  of  motherhood." 

"You  touch  the  true  question,"  said  Archer. 
They  went  on  to  discuss  eagerly  other  questions  then 
maturing  in  regard  to  the  need  to  enlarge  the  edu- 
cation of  women.  When  presently  he  and  Madge 
spoke  of  nurses  and  of  their  want  of  a  fuller  pre- 
liminary education,  Mary,  who  had  listened  with 
interest,  said: 

"I  should  like  to  be  a  nurse."  The  craving  for 
some  exacting  role  of  duty  had  of  late  been  much  in 
her  mind. 

"You  would  make  a  good  one,"  said  Archer. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  returned.  "I  might  fancy 
hospital  work.  Do  you  yourself  prefer  ward  work 
to  private  practice  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  both — both;  but  the  wards  for  study.  By 
the  way,  when  you  go  to  the  Farm  School  of  a  Sun- 
day your  readings  in  our  men's  ward  are  greatly 
missed. ' ' 

"Are  they  indeed?"  She  flushed  joyously. 
"Thank  you,  but  you  fail  to  really  answer  us." 

"Yes,  you  must  not  get  me  on  to  my  hobby.  Take 
the  best  and  ablest  of  men,  give  him  the  heart  of 
St.  John,  give  genius,  every  accomplishment,  and 
he  will  never  rise  to  the  ideal  level  of  the  perfect 
physician.  There  is  no  life  fit  to  compare  to  it." 

"The  clergyman's?"  asked  Margaret. 

"Oh,  no!  That  has  too  many  limitations.  No! 
Ah,  see  how  you  have  trapped  me. ' ' 


120  CIRCUMSTANCE 

He  was  waiting  for  Miss  Fairthorne  to  go.  She 
lingered,  half  unwillingly.  This  man  affected  her 
as  no  other  had  ever  done.  Secure  in  her  modestly 
guarded  secret,  she  was  now  yielding  to  the  mere 
pleasure  of  being  in  Archer's  company. 

Seeing,  at  last,  that  Miss  Mary  was  for  some  rea- 
son of  no  mind  to  leave,  he  said  to  himself : 

"Why,  after  all,  may  I  not  talk  myself  out  before 
her?"  He  set  about  his  kindly  business  artfully. 

"Do  you  not  think  Grace  an  interesting  speci- 
men of  the  best  kind  of  our  self-made  men  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Fairthorne.  "I  saw  several 
of  the  species  last  year  in  Washington,  but  none 
like  Mr.  Grace.  Usually  they  were  handicapped  by 
some  commonplace  wife." 

"The  man  who  means  to  rise,"  said  Mrs.  Swan- 
wick,  "who  means  to  make  himself,  ought  to  marry 
at  forty.  The  woman  partner  is  very  important. 
It  is  amazing  how  some  men  who  rise  from  the  soil 
assimilate  all  that  is  best  in  life.  I  do  not  think  that 
the  same  class  of  woman  has  this  power." 

"Has  she  ever  a  man's  opportunities?"  asked 
Mary. 

"No,  perhaps  not,"  returned  Archer.  "Speak- 
ing of  Grace  reminds  me  of  a  young  fellow  who  just 
now  interests  me  a  good  deal."  He  went  on  to  tell 
very  cleverly  of  the  partnership  in  the  overcoat  and 
of  the  domestic  economies  of  the  two  young  men, 
sketching  at  last  with  much  adroitness  the  sad,  home- 
less life  and  the  strong  mental  and  moral  character 
of  Martin  Blount. 

"And  so  our  dear  white  mice,  the  Markhams,  are 


CIRCUMSTANCE  121 

caring  for  him!"  said  Miss  Fairthorne.  "Clemen- 
tina spoke  of  him  to  me.  If  you  need  any  help — if 
he  needs  money— you  might  let  me  do  my  share." 

Archer  laughed,  well  pleased. 

"No,  that  is  provided  for.  He  won  a  scholarship, 
and  the  rest  is  assured. 

\/      "Ah!"  said  Mary.     "I  envy  him  the  battle  of 
life." 

"He  will  win,  but  just  now  the  man  needs  some- 
thing else.  He  is  socially  untrained,  and,  alas! 
where  is  there  a  college  for  manners?  He  is  un- 
neat,  careless  as  to  dress,  and  you  will  shudder  at 
his  nails.  In  fact,  he  ate  with  his  knife  until  Miss 
Markham  mildly  mentioned  the  desirability  of  using 
the  fork.  But,  really,  he  is  worth  polishing.  He  is 
N/  only  by  the  accidents  of  misfortune  a  son  of  the 
soil. ' ' 

"Why  not  bring  him  here?"  said  Mrs.  Swan  wick. 

"I  wanted  you  to  say  that.  And  now  I  may  tell 
you  what  is  strange,  that  he  and  I  have  a  common 
descent,  as  we  both  share  the  blood  of  Edward  Fitz 
Randolph,  who  came  to  Massachusetts  in  1640.  My 
people  finally  went  to  Carolina;  Blount's  were  a 
race  of  New  England  clergymen,  governors,  and 
soldiers.  He  has  some  of  their  grimness.  Of 
course,  this  far-away  kinship  interests  me.  Will  you 
help  him?" 

"Bring  him  here  on  Sunday  night,  and  I  will  see." 

"Very  good,"  and  he  left.  Then  Mary  said: 
"Uncle  made  me  call  on  Mrs.  Hunter,  but  I  refused 
to  ask  you  to  do  so.  He  will  ask  you  himself,  unless 
he  forgets  it.  I  have  seen  her  twice  with  Kitty, 


122  CIRCUMSTANCE 

and  I  still  marvel  why  a  woman  of  education  and 
so  clever  should  take  a  fancy  to  Kit.  I  suppose 
Kitty  will  drop  her  as  she  does  friends  and  lovers. 
There  is  something  about  the  woman  I  do  not  fancy. 
What  it  is  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  can  usually  predict 
my  dislikes." 
\J  "How  feminine  that  is,  Mary!" 

"Well,  it  is  none  the  worse  for  that." 

"But  you  must  have  some  grounds.  What  are 
they?" 

"She  is— well,  she  is  furtive." 

"The  synonym  for  stealthy,  dear." 

"There  are  no  such  things  as  synonyms.  She  is 
furtive  and  may  be  stealthy.  Furtive  I  insist  upon. 
However,  we  shall  see.  Meanwhile,  good  or  bad,  she 
is  interesting." 

"And  so  is  Sydney  Archer.  How  well  he  told 
his  little  story.  I  wish  Kitty  would  let  him  alone. 
He  is  quite  too  good  for  her." 

' '  I  hope  you  will  not  interfere. ' '  She  knew  Madge 
well.  "Please  do  not.  It  would  be  useless,  quite 
useless,  Madge,  and  he  will  never  marry  Kitty." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"I  know,  I  do  not  think." 

' '  Some  time  ago,  Mary,  I  had  a  suspicion  that — ' ' 

"Nonsense !  Oh,  there  is  Harry.  It  is  late  and  he 
must  walk  home  with  me.  By-by,  dear,"  and  she 
went  down  to  capture  her  brother-in-law  in  the  hall, 
while  Margaret  said  to  herself: 

"I  was  foolish  to  talk  to  Mary."  Nevertheless, 
she  knew  herself  so  well  that  she  was  sure  she  should 
some  day  yield  to  the  temptation  to  warn  or  advise 


CIRCUMSTANCE  123 

Sydney  Archer.  She  was  sometimes  too  much  in- 
clined to  interfere  in  other  folk's  affairs,  not,  like 
Mrs.  Hunter,  from  mere  love  of  rule,  but  because, 
being  a  warm  friend,  the  desire  to  help  and  her  belief 
in  her  own  judgment  were  apt  to  conquer  in  the  end. 


xrv 

FEW  days  later  Mrs.  Hunter,  walking 
to  and  fro  under  the  bare  trees  in 
what  we  still  call  the  State-House  yard, 
talked  to  her  brother. 

"Lionel,  you  now  have  a  good  place 
and  the  best  chance  you  have  ever  had.  I  know  you 
will  try  hard."  She  had  her  doubts. 

Of  course  he  would  try,  but  the  salary  was  very 
small,  and  those  old  ladies  very  disagreeably  par- 
ticular. 

' '  And  yet,  you  must  stay, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  am  mak- 
ing friends  for  you  and  for  myself."  She  said  no 
word  as  to  what  her  schemes  were.  As  far  as  pos- 
sible she  hid  from  him  what  might  appear  too 
crooked  in  a  rather  seamy  life.  She  wished  the 
only  person  she  loved  to  think  well  of  her.  But  far 
more  did  she  desire  him  to  be  all  that  she  was  not. 
Her  own  cravings  were  for  ease,  luxury,  dress,  music. 
Her  ambitions  for  him  were  far  higher.  With  his 
looks  and  manners,  for  here  she  lost  power  to  be 
critical,  what  might  he  not  do  and  be?  She  prom- 
ised him  that  before  long  he  should  see  Kitty,  and 
perhaps,  who  knows —  They  both  laughed.  But, 
above  all,  he  must  satisfy  Mr.  Grace,  and  now  he 
must  go.  It  was  time  he  went  to  the  office. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  125 

She  herself  had  lingered  for  this  talk  on  her  way 
to  visit  Mr.  Fairthorne,  who  had  asked  for  her  again 
and  again.  She  had  pretended  occupation,  and 
waited. 

Kitty  was,  as  usual,  delighted  to  see  her.  No  one 
else  listened  to  her  good-humored  prattle  as  did  Mrs. 
Hunter.  They  kissed  a  good  deal,  and  Kitty  said: 
''Uncle  expects  you  to-day,  and  I  hope,  too,  you  will 
see  Mary.  Father  Knellwood  will  be  here  to  make 
an  appointment  about  the  meeting  of  the  altar  so- 
ciety. You  must  join  it.  I  was  sure  you  would." 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  happy  at  the  thought  of  meeting 
him,  and  would  do  whatever  her  dear  Kitty  desired. 
What  a  pleasure  to  see  that  the  decorations  of  the 
altar  were  all  that  they  should  be.  There  was  ordi- 
narily so  much  bad  taste  in  religion.  Kitty  trea- 
sured the  phrase  for  future  use. 

As  Mary  Fairthorne  was  continually  taking  her- 
self to  task  for  something  done  or  thought,  it  was 
natural  for  her  to  feel  that  on  too  small  grounds  she 
had  harshly  judged  her  cousin's  friend.  Certainly 
Miss  Morrow  was  injudicious  in  her  unfaltering 
admiration  of  her  new  friend,  and  had  never  learned 
that  excess  of  praise  is  apt,  for  obvious  reasons,  to 
provoke  a  tendency  toward  suspicious  undervaluing 
of  the  thing  praised.  Mary  thought  of  this  and  of 
the  injustice  it  may  occasion.  When  she  was  told 
that  Mrs.  Hunter  had  come  to  see  Mr.  Fairthorne, 
she  rose  in  the  freshness  of  self-condemnation,  re- 
solved to  be  very  pleasant  to  Mrs.  Hunter. 

As  she  went  down-stairs  she  remembered  that  Mr. 
Masters  had  once  asked  Margaret  Swanwick  what 


J 


126  CIRCUMSTANCE 

would  happen  if  folks  tired  of  themselves  could  have 
a  character  auction  and  sell  out  and  buy  in. 

"What,"  thought  Mary,  "would  Kitty's  fetch?  or 
Mrs.  Hunter's?"  The  idea  had  amused  and  also 
a  little  surprised  her,  until  Masters  had  said  it  was 
Pilgrim's  wisdom.  Meeting  Mrs.  Hunter  on  the 
stairs,  she  addressed  her  with  a  graciousness  which 
gained  something  from  her  unusual  height  and  made 
her  greeting  seem  like  a  generous  compliment  to  the 
guest  of  the  hour. 

' '  I  am  glad  to  see  you, ' '  she  said,  as  she  turned  to 
reascend  the  stair.  "I  was  not  so  fortunate  as  to 
find  you  at  home. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hunter,  who  was  prepared  by  self-knowledge 
to  expect  a  hostile,  or  at  least  a  cool  reception,  at 
once  became  cordial. 

"You  were  very  good  to  call  on  me,  Miss  Fair- 
thorne.  I  know  how  full  your  life  is  and  how  little 
v  leisure  you  must  have." 

A  mildly  critical  comment  arose  in  Mary's  mind, 
an  instinctive  sense  that  this  lady,  with  her  good 
taste  in  dress  and  her  intelligence,  was  not  an  en- 
y/  tirely  well-bred  woman.  She  said : 

"I  hope  to  be  more  fortunate  in  future.  My 
uncle  sees  very  few  people,  but  he  has  been  asking 
for  you,  and  is  very  well  to-day,  which  is  not  always 
the  case.  Mrs.  Hunter,  Uncle  John."  She  set  a 
chair  near  him,  as  he  said:  "I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you.  Sit  down ;  excuse  my  not  rising.  I  am  not 
very  strong  to-day,  but  I  can  always  talk.  If  that 
confounded  doctor  did  not  dose  me  I  should  be  bet- 
ter. I  have  no  faith  in  his  tribe." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  127 

Mary  laughed. 

"But  if  he  misses  seeing  you  every  day  you  do 
not  like  it. ' ' 

"Mere  habit!  A  question  of  habit.  He  is  in- 
telligent enough,  and  talks  well.  If  I  do  not  take 
his  stuff  he  stays  away  and  then  I  miss  the  talk. 
We  all  believe  in  drugs,  sort  of  fetich — a  survival 
of  the  medicine  man." 

"That  depends,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter.  "From  all 
I  hear,  Dr.  Archer  is  an  unusual  man  and  a  very 
original  thinker.  I  have  long  wished  to  see  him." 

"Then  you  can  have  a  consultation  presently," 
said  Kitty,  who  was  restlessly  moving  about,  while 
Felisa  again  made  herself  comfortable  on  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter's lap,  to  the  surprise  of  Miss  Fairthorne.  She, 
herself,  did  not  like  cats,  and  now  she  fancied  this 
woman  a  little  less  because  of  Felisa 's  sudden  friend- 
liness. She  said  to  herself : 

' '  How  ridiculous  of  me ! ' ' 

Her  uncle,  rather  amused,  went  on  talking  of  cats 
and  of  Washington's  aversion  to  them  and  of  the 
odd  fact  that  cats  are  not  mentioned  in  the  Bible. 

"Perhaps  that  was  because  the  Egyptians  wor- 
shiped cats,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter. 

"Or  perhaps,"  returned  Mary,  "because  there  are 
so  few  mice  in  the  Bible." 

Mrs.  Hunter  knew  a  woman  who  fainted  when  a 
cat  was  in  the  room,  and  wondered  why  to  see  a 
caged  tiger  did  not  kill  her  outright.  She  talked 
well  and  had  read  enough  to  sustain  the  delusion 
of  having  read  more.  She  asked  questions  and  re- 
ceived the  replies  of  Fairthorne  with  an  air  of  sur- 


128  CIRCUMSTANCE 

prise  and  satisfaction;  but  playing  to  this  double 
audience  tasked  all  her  power  and  she  was  relieved 
when  Miss  Fairthorne  rose. 

Mary  had  remained  long  enough  to  feel  assured 
that  her  uncle  was  for  that  hour  well  pleased  and 
that  she  might  without  discourtesy  escape.  She 
said,  wrhen  for  a  moment  there  was  a  pause: 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  leave  you  with  my 
uncle." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Kitty,  who  was  never  long 
at  rest,  said  she  too  must  be  excused  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  thus,  at  last,  Lucretia  found  herself 
alone  with  her  host,  a  coveted  chance. 

The  woman  who  sat  beside  John  Fairthorne  more 
than  satisfied  his  exactions  as  to  face  and  figure,  for, 
like  a  greater  philosopher  of  his  own  city,  he  is  said 
to  have  remarked  that  in  women  he  liked  best  mod- 
erate intelligence,  capacity  to  listen,  and  a  good  fig- 
ure; and  as  for  the  face,  that  was  of  less  moment. 
In  his  narrowing  life  he  had  grown  to  be  observant 
of  things  which  escape  the  inattentively  busy  and, 
in  fact,  liked  to  waste  in  the  futile  study  of  hand- 
scripts  a  mind  which,  although  once  capable  enough, 
had  suffered  from  lazy  disuse  and  later  from  per- 
sonal dislike  of  the  competitions  of  life. 

After  a  half -hour  of  chat,  Mrs.  Hunter  suddenly 
rose  and,  with  the  joyousness  of  a  girl,  cried : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Fairthorne,  is  not  that  a  portrait  of 
General  Wayne?  Pardon  me,  I  must  look  at  it." 
The  picture,  a  Kitcat  portrait,  was  framed  by  the 
bookshelves  around  it,  and  was  the  only  picture  in 
the  library,  a  room  which  extended  across  the  sixty- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  129 

feet  width  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Hunter  stood  with 
hands  behind  her  back. 

' '  What  a  virile  face, ' '  she  said. 

Meanwhile,  John  Fairthorne  watched  her,  and,  ex- 
cited by  this  new  visitor,  talked  on  as  she  gazed  at 
the  great  soldier  or  turned  her  animated  face  toward 
her  host.  He  was  in  the  presence  of  an  actress  so 
great  that  she  was  sometimes  for  the  moment  the 
person  she  was  acting. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  he  said.  "The  artist  is 
unknown.  Some  day  you  must  come  to  our  country 
home.  Most  of  my  family  portraits  are  there.  We 
will  drive  over  to  St.  David's,  where  Wayne  lies 
buried.  My  great-uncle  was  on  his  staff  at  Stony 
Point." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said;  "George  Fairthorne." 

She  remained  before  the  portrait,  while  her  host, 
more  critically  considering  her,  said  to  himself : 

' '  What  an  ivory-like  skin — yes,  a  pearl  hue. ' '  He 
was  pleased  to  have  found  the  right  word.  "Inter- 
esting face,  noticeable  face."  Strongly  pronounced 
eyebrows,  large,  deeply-set  eyes,  passionless  and 
rather  thin,  very  red  lips  contributed  to  her  general 
expression  something  which  inevitably  attracted, 
but  did  not  quite  satisfy. 

"Devilish  handsome,"  he  concluded.  Perhaps 
that  did  describe  her  and  was  a  better  summary  than 
he  guessed  it  to  be. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  hear  well  at  a 
distance,  but  I  hear  your  voice  unusually  clearly." 
He  did. 

She  moved  a  chair  close  to  his,  and  slowly,  with 

9 


130  CIRCUMSTANCE 

purpose,  drew  off  her  gloves,  saying,  as  if  the  act 
suggested  the  remark: 

"What  pretty  hands  Miss  Kitty  has!" 

"Hands!"  he  returned.  "No  character  in  them 
— none !  No  character  in  them ;  you  may  see  that  in 
her  writing.  I  could  describe  her  hand  from  the 
abominable  scrawl  she  writes." 

"Indeed?  That  is  beyond  my  skill.  You  must 
pardon  a  stranger  if  I  say  that  you  have  the  ideal 
masculine  hand,  the  hand  of  intellect  and  refine- 
ment." She  had  heard  of  this  as  one  of  his  small 
vanities. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  with  his  old-world  manner,  "the 
value  of  flattery  lies  in  the  flatterer." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried.  "It  would  be  true  if  Miinch- 
hausen  had  said  it.  But  could  you  from  my  hand 
tell  how  I  write?  See,  sir,"  and  she  set  forth  for 
inspection  her  most  faultless  possession,  a  nearly 
perfect  hand.  The  old  gentleman  took  it  in  his, 
looked  it  over  and  retained  it,  as  if  forgetful. 

"Yes,  I  could  tell." 

"But  you  have  seen  my  writing." 

"Yes,  yes,  very  true,"  he  laughed;  "that  assists 
one,"  and  still  he  kept  his  prisoner. 

Mrs.  Hunter,  hearing  some  one  coming  up  the 
stairs,  said: 

"Do  you  not  think,  sir,  you  have  sufficiently  in- 
spected my  hand?"  She  laughed  gaily,  gently  set- 
ting herself  free,  and  rising  as  she  added :  "  I  fear 
you  are  not  always  to  be  trusted  in  these  studies. 
Bad  people  do  say  that  you  were  very  fatal  to  my 


CIECUMSTANCE  131 

"Chut,  chut!"  he  cried,  much  delighted.  "I 
am  past  all  such  follies— a  broken  old  man.  Age 
has—" 

' '  Age ! ' '  she  broke  in.  ' '  Time  has  taken  with  one 
hand  and  given  with  the  other." 

"Very  pretty  that,  madam;  very  neat,  but  damned 
nonsense.  Pardon  me,  I  have  the  bad  ways  of  the 
men  of  my  day." 

"But  they  were  men!"  she  cried.  "And  now, 
good-bye,  and  may  I,  may  I  say  I  have  a  good  deal 
of  leisure  ?  Miss  Fairthorne  is  busy,  Miss  Katherine 
otherwise  occupied,"  and  she  smiled.  "If  ever  you 
have  any  work  on  your  autographs  you  could  let  me 
do  at  home,  I  should  feel  honored." 

"Thank  you.  I  may  take  you  at  your  word;  but 
you  would  have  to  work  here.  I  could  not  trust  my 
autographs  out  of  my  house— not  even  with  you, 
madam. ' ' 

"Oh!  I  beg  pardon,  of  course  not.  How  could 
I  have  ventured  to  think  of  such  a  thing!"  She 
never  had  believed  that  he  would,  and  when  he  re- 
turned: "But  perhaps  you  will  come  and  look  over 
them  with  me,"  she  said  that  would  be  an  added 
pleasure,  and  asked  when  it  would  suit  him. 

"Why  not  to-morrow?"  he  said. 

"How  delightful!  And  about  this  hour?  About 
eleven  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  that  would  do.  We  shall  be  quite  alone 
then.  Ah !  Do  not  go.  Here  is  my  daily  nuisance, 
my  doctor.  Archer,"  he  rose  with  some  effort,  "per- 
mit me  to  present  you  to  Mrs.  Hunter." 

Archer  took  her  hand,  and,  interested  by  what  he 


132  CIRCUMSTANCE 

had  heard  of  her,  looked  her  over  quickly  with  an 
eye  trained  to  observe,  and  trained  also  not  to  seem 
to  observe.  He  thought  her  appearance  singular— 
an  unusual  type— but  she  was  Miss  Morrow's  friend. 
Nevertheless,  he  vaguely  felt  the  serpent-like  power 
of  this  woman  to  attract  and  still  to  be  what  he 
hesitated  to  call  repellent. 

"I  was  about  to  leave,  Dr.  Archer,"  she  said, 
"but  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  if  only  for  a  moment. 
You  will  hardly  believe  me,  but  I  have  read  your 
essay  in  the  'Atlantic'  on  the  'Medical  Organiza- 
tion of  the  Roman  Armies. '  "  It  was  a  little  bit 
of  the  literary  by-play  of  a  busy  life  and  the  one 
of  his  minor  essays  which  had  given  him  the  most 
pleasure.  Needless  to  say,  she  knew  it  by  title  only. 
He  did  not  see  why  he  ought  to  feel  surprise  at  her 
having  read  it,  but  he  did.  He  disliked  to  be  the 
subject  of  discussion,  so  that  when  she  asked  Mr. 
Fairthorne  if  he  had  read  Dr.  Archer's  book  on  the 
"Psychology  of  Childhood,"  he  turned  the  talk, 
saying : 

"Oh,  no  one  reads  that  but  mothers,  and  they  do 
not  understand  it.  How  are  you  to-day,  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne?" 

Mrs.  Hunter  accepted  the  hint  and,  hoping  she 
might  soon  have  the  pleasure  of  a  longer  talk,  went 
away  to  the  library  Franklin  founded  and  spent  an 
hour  over  the  book  last  in  question.  She  thought, 
as  she  closed  it : 

"A  strong  man,  that.  He  may  be  in  the  way. 
Shall  he  marry  Kitty  or  not  ?  I  think  not.  I  want 
her.  I  must  know  Mary  Fairthorne  better.  Yes," 


CIRCUMSTANCE  133 

she  said,  ' '  that  will  do ;  I  must  make  her  life  easier, 
and  I  can." 

Here  her  confidence  in  her  own  capacity  misled 
her.  Her  love  of  rule  was  certain  to  be  the  success- 
ful foe  of  her  politic  wish. 


XV 


kRS.  HUNTER  wrote  next  day  and  ex- 
cused herself  to  Mr.  Fairthorne.  She 
had  some  literary  work  to  do.  He  was 
vexed,  and  made  both  his  nieces  feel 
his  disappointment.  The  day  after 
Kitty  reported  that  Mrs.  Hunter  had  a  headache. 
Even  Mary  began  to  think  that  a  visit  from  Kitty's 
friend  might  be  desirable,  but  what  with  one  excuse 
and  another  Lucretia  failed  to  appear.  She  was 
playing  her  fish  with  patient  skill. 

When,  after  some  days,  Mary  Fairthorne  came 
in  about  noon,  she  found  Mrs.  Hunter  busy  over 
a  table  covered  with  portfolios  of  autographs.  Her 
uncle,  hearing  her,  let  fall  the  hand  he  had  laid 
on  Mrs.  Hunter's  shoulder,  as  he  stood  beside  her 
chair. 

"Come  in,  Mary,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "Mrs. 
Hunter  has  given  me  a  hint  as  to  how  to  cross-cata- 
logue. We  are  going  to  try  it  on  the  reign  of  Anne. 
Authors  and  the  subject  of  their  letters.  Will  you 
give  Mrs.  Hunter  some  lunch  ?  We  are  through  for 
to-day." 

Mary,  who  always  found  it  hard  to  believe  ill  of 
anybody,  although  by  no  means  drawn  to  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter, had  no  valid  suspicions  of  evil  against  Kitty's 
134 


CIRCUMSTANCE  135 

friend  and  was  for  a  while  a  little  amused  and  con- 
siderably relieved  by  her  frequent  visits  to  John 
Fairthorne.  She  had  put  aside  as  without  founda- 
tion the  impression  that  lady  had  made  upon  her 
and  now  pleasantly  insisted  upon  her  coming  down 
to  lunch. 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  here  on  new  ground.  The  old 
silver  and  the  buff-and-gold  Nankin  china  pleased 
her,  as  did  the  bowl  of  roses  on  the  table,  the  ease 
of  her  hostess.  She  talked  quietly  and  well  of  the 
latest  books,  of  her  pleasure  that  her  brother  was 
with  Mr.  Grace,  and  altogether  made  a  good  impres- 
sion. When  at  last  Mary  asked  if  she  meant  to  re- 
main long  in  the  city  she  said  two  or  three  months ; 
that  she  was  doing  some  magazine  work  on  which  she 
was,  to  some  extent,  dependent.  That  she  picked  up 
a  little  money  by  writing  items  for  a  New  York 
journal  she  did  not  state.  She  went  on  to  add  that 
she  was  in  Philadelphia  chiefly  to  use  the  library  of 
the  Historical  Society. 

"I  envy  you  work  that  you  must  do,"  said  Mary. 

"It  is  pleasant  to  find  in  my  life  anything  that 
a  woman  like  you  can  envy.  I  am  to  write  a  series 
of  articles  on  the  women  of  colonial  times." 

"I  am  sure  that  my  uncle  could  help  you.  He 
knows — oh,  wickedly  well! — everybody's  family  his- 
tory." 

"Yes,  he  has  already  given  me  useful  hints;  and 
will  you  pardon  me  if  I  say  something  unusual?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mary,  smiling.     "What  is  it?" 

"He  has  asked  me — you  heard  what  he  said — to 
aid  him  in  the  cataloguing  of  his  collection;  but  I 


136  CIRCUMSTANCE 

did  feel,  Miss  Fairthorne,  I  do  feel  that,  as  it  would 
make  me  a  frequent  visitor,  I  could  not  say  frankly 
yes,  until  I  learned  whether  it  would  be  entirely 
agreeable  to  you.  Katherine  thinks  that  it  would 
really  relieve  you.  I  think  you  must  understand 
my  very  reasonable  hesitation.  I  have  the  time, 
and,  frankly,  it  will  be  of  more  or  less  use  to  me  in 
a  variety  of  ways.  Mr.  Fairthorne  has  such  remark- 
able literary  sympathies—  '  She  felt  she  had  made 
a  mistake.  Something  in  Mary's  look  told  her  this 
as  the  girl  replied  a  little  coldly: 

"I  really  can  see  no  objection."  After  all,  it  was 
her  uncle's  affair,  not  hers;  and  it  would  at  least 
relieve  her  in  a  measure.  She  added,  more  cor- 
dially: "I  think  my  uncle  enjoys  your  assistance. 
Whatever  pleases  him  pleases  us." 

Mrs.  Hunter  felt  that  for  the  time  this  was 
enough  and,  the  lunch  being  over,  they  rose,  as  a 
servant  announced  that  Mr.  Knellwood  was  in  the 
drawing-room  to  see  Miss  Morrow,  but  that  Miss 
Katherine  was  out.  She  had  an  easy  way  of  for- 
getting engagements.  Mary  said : 

"Perhaps  he  will  wait.  I  have  an  engagement. 
I  must  go  out.  You  will  excuse  me." 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  join  Mr.  Knellwood 
and  wait  for  your  cousin." 

"Certainly,  if  you  like,"  and  Mrs.  Hunter  was 
shown  into  the  dismal  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Knellwood  had  been  out  of  town,  as  we  have 
said,  and  on  his  return  had  found  several  notes  from 
Miss  Kitty.  He  had  penitently  schooled  himself 
while  absent  and  returned  serious  and  full  of  self- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  137 

reproach  and  his  usual  fervor.  Miss  Kitty's  notes 
were  of  no  moment ;  but  he  had  now  another  errand. 
He  wanted  money.  He  always  wanted  money,  and 
it  was  hard  to  resist  him.  Roger  Grace  simply 
asked  ' '  How  much  ? ' '  and  John  Fairthorne,  who  was 
indifferent  about  the  poor,  gave  because  giving  was  a 
traditional  family  habit,  and  because,  as  he  said, 
when  Mary  grew  curious  about  motives:  "Well,  I 
do  not  go  to  church— must  do  something,  and,  be- 
sides, I  like  Knellwood."  Margaret  Swanwick  said 
this  was  vague;  and  Mary  replied  that  a  very  fair 
amount  of  human  goodness  was  vague  and  not  al- 
ways to  be  explained. 

Miss  Kitty  was  a  person  who  made  tremendous 
confidences  and  now  Lucretia  was  her  advisory  con- 
fessor and  knew  as  well  as  a  shrewd  woman  could 
know  the  veering  winds  of  Kitty's  mind.  Herself 
cold  and  passionless,  she  could  not  fully  apprehend 
the  influence  which  this  self-indulgent  beauty  ex- 
erted over  so  many  men.  It  was  the  force  which  in 
all  ages  has  mocked  the  rivalry  of  every  other  femi- 
nine influence— mere  bodily  perfection,  with  the 
animal  instinct  of  desire  to  capture.  It  is  apt  in  the 
end  to  make  passionate  surrender  to  some  coarse 
athlete,  or,  at  least,  to  fall  sense-wakened  before 
some  man  of  athletic  build.  Women  like  Kitty  are 
ruled  by  their  instincts. 

Mrs.  Hunter,  without  clearly  understanding  why, 
soon  saw  that  for  Kitty  the  nobly  built  clergyman 
was  a  heart-risk  larger  than  the  more  accomplished 
physician.  She  meant,  however,  to  own  Kitty  body 
and  soul,  and,  looking  far  ahead,  intended  that  nei- 


138  CIRCUMSTANCE 

ther  man  should  marry  her.  The  game  grew  diffi- 
cult, but  this  player  enjoyed  it. 

"Father  Knellwood,"  she  said,  as  she  noted  with 
surprise  the  upright  carriage  of  the  athletic  priest, 
and  his  drawn,  ascetic  features,  "allow  me  to  pre- 
sent myself — I  am  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  I  am  more  glad 
to  see  you  than  I  can  say." 

She  saw  his  failure  to  put  out  his  hand.  He 
avoided  this  manual  greeting  like  a  nun,  and  Mrs. 
Hunter  knew  it  in  time. 

"Miss  Morrow  has  spoken  much  of  you,  and  I 
have  had,  too,  your  very  interesting  letters.  I  am 
glad  of  the  chance  of  learning  what  kind  of  work 
you  desire.  I  have  been  away  for  a  while." 

She  replied  that  she  had  already  joined  the  altar 
society.  He  smiled  a  kindly,  gradual  smile,  and 
said: 

"That  is  hardly  work,  you  know,  Mrs.  Hunter." 

"Oh,  no !  But  I  thought  I  would  wait  a  little  and 
see."  She  was  not  quite  free  enough  to  visit  among 
the  poor.  Her  magazine  work  left  her  tired  and  she 
was  not  yet  strong  enough. 

The  rector  considered  briefly  the  compact  figure 
and  the  clear,  ivory-like  tint  of  her  face,  and  said : 

"I  find,  myself,  that  helping  Christ's  poor  is  a 
marvelous  tonic." 

"Soon  or  late,"  she  returned,  "you  shall  have  all 
there  is  of  me  to  give." 

"Not  I,  but  another,  my  dear  lady.  Now  I  must 
leave  you.  I  came  to  beg  a  little  from  Miss  Kath- 
erine.  She  is  generous,  indeed  lavish,  when  she 
has  means,  but  as  she  is  still  under  age  she  has  not 
as  much  to  give  as  Miss  Mary." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  139 

' '  Let  me  help  you,  Mr.  Knellwood.  That  the  little 
I  can  offer  is  of  my  own  making  may  give  it  value. 
Do  you  think  the  widow  had  earned  the  mite  she 
gave  ?  I  often  wonder. ' ' 

The  rector  took  the  five-dollar  note,  and  said : 

"A  gift  thanks  the  giver,  they  say  in  Syria;  and 
what  an  interesting  thought  about  the  widow 's  mite ! 
Perhaps  it  had  been  given  to  her.  Ah,  well,  I  seem 
always  to  get  what  I  want. ' ' 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Knellwood,"  she  said,  as  they 
both  rose;  "you  must  let  me  call  you  Father.  It 
makes  possible  so  much  that  otherwise— but  you 
understand. ' ' 

"I  shall  hope  to  do  so."  He  bowed  slightly,  a 
little  on  guard,  and  for  that  reason  the  more  cour- 
teous. 

"May  I  ask  that  what  I  am  about  to  say  be  con- 
/  sidered  as  a  confidence?  I  do  not  mean  that  the 
knowledge  may  not  be  used  but — but  that —  Oh! 
I  am  so  troubled !  It  is  about  my  friend,  Katherine 
Morrow.  The  girl  has  become  very  dear  to  my  child- 
less life."  Mr.  Knellwood 's  hand  went  up  to  the 
cross  on  his  broad  chest,  and  then,  dropping  it,  fell 
to  buttoning  a  neglected  button  of  his  long  coat. 

"Pray  go  on,"  he  said.  Then  Mrs.  Hunter  felt 
secure,  and,  speaking  with  well-acted  embarrass- 
ment, said: 

"If  you  are  Katherine 's  confessor"  (she  knew  he 
had  been)  "you  must,  as  the  friend  of  her  soul,  feel 
v  as  I  do  that  this  dear  child  is  in  some  danger  of 
giving  her  heart  to  a  man  without  distinct  beliefs, 
to  one  to  whom  all  that  we  hold  dearest  is — not 
what  it  is  to  us— to  you— to  me." 


140  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Do  you  mean  Sydney  Archer?"  he  said,  faintly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  surprised  at  his  directness. 

"But,"  and  he  straightened  himself,  seeing  with 
honest  scorn  a  temptation  in  his  path,  "I  think  you 
are  mistaken  as  to  his  opinions." 

"I  may  be;  but  Kitty,  who  spoke  of  it,  was  her- 
self shocked.  Perhaps  in  my  spiritual  distress  I 
have  done  wrong,  but  I  thought  that  if  some  one — 
if  you,  her  confessor,  could  add  your  warning  to  aid 
the  small  influence  I  possess—  Oh,  Father  Knell  - 
wood,  it  is  so  hard  to  do  right — to  be  sure  one  is 
right." 

"That  is  true  for  all  of  us.  We  can  only  prayer- 
fully consider  a  course  of  action  and  then  do  as 
seems  right.  God  asks  no  more  of  us. ' ' 

"Thank  you.  I  did  fear  so  much  that  you  might 
not  understand  me. ' ' 

"What  you  have  said  to  me  is  a  very  grave  mat- 
ter. I  suspect  that  both  you  and  Miss  Morrow  are 
wrong  as  to  Dr.  Archer's  opinions.  But  no  matter 
what  they  are,  I  can  do  nothing,  and  my  advice  to 
you,  if  you  asked  it,  would  be  to  let  the  matter  drop 
—I  said  if  you  asked  my  advice." 

"  I  do,  I  do  indeed.     That  is  why  I  spoke. ' ' 

"Then,  have  you  asked  for  wiser  guidance  than 
mine?  Have  you  done  this?" 

Something  out  of  the  past,  out  of  her  youth,  made 
her  hesitate  to  lie  about  prayer.  She  said : 

"No." 

"Then  you  know  what  to  do.  With  Miss  Kath- 
erine  you  can,  of  course,  talk  freely.  You  may  be 
doing  her  and  Dr.  Archer  incalculable  wrong." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  141 

"I  am  glad  to  know  that  I  may  be  mistaken,  but, 
in  any  case,  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness. ' ' 

He  had  done  what  he  thought  right  and  said  what 
he  thought  true.  Now  he  stood  nervously  grasping 
the  cross  he  wore. 

"I  ought  to  say  further,  Mrs.  Hunter,  that  on  my 
return,  in  rearranging  our  parish  work,  it  has  ap- 
peared better  to  assign  the  confessions  of  some  of 
my  parishioners  to  an  older  man  than  I."  Here  he 
felt  that  he  was  needlessly  self-explanatory. 

"He  is  hard  hit,"  thought  Mrs.  Hunter.  "He  is 
afraid  of  her." 

"Pardon  me.  You  are  no  doubt  right.  I  abide 
by  your  decision,"  she  said  meekly,  "and  I  do  hope 
you  feel  that  in  speaking  to  you  I  could  have  but 
one  motive. ' '  He  smiled  pleasantly. 

"Rest  easy  as  to  that."  Indeed,  he  was  a  man 
who  thought  ill  of  no  one  and  moved  with  chari- 
table tenderness  of  explanation  amid  the  crimes  and 
follies  of  the  poor  and  the  rich. 

He  went  away,  saying  to  himself: 
/  "Here  is  a  good  woman  ignorantly  tempting  me. 
Oh,  let  her  marry  whom  she  will!"  and  then  the 
fair  face  and  figure  filled  his  soul  with  yearning, 
and  he  thought  of  a  home  and  Kitty,  of  children, 
and  how  he  loved  them.  He  went  up  the  street, 
tramping  down  the  gathering  snow  and  praying  as 
he  went.  He  was  the  victim  of  a  self-made,  revoca- 
ble vow,  and  the  strong,  natural  man  was  in  revolt. 

Mrs.  Hunter  waited,  smiling  as  she  looked  out  of 
the  window  after  him.  She  had  no  entire  faith  in 
any  one. 


142  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"If,"  she  said,  "he  does  something — speaks  to 
that  other  priest— it  will  do  no  harm.  If  he  does 
not?  Well,  I  know  now  that  he  loves  the  girl.  He 
is  the  very  person  to  attract  her,  and  he  will  never 
marry  her— never;  but  he  will  kill  the  doctor's 
chance."  She  was  a  little  in  doubt  as  to  the  wis- 
dom of  what  she  had  said  to  the  rector;  but  there 
had  been  in  her  interview  a  flavor  of  risk  and  that 
sense  of  adventure  which  never  failed  to  give  her 
pleasure. 

Kitty  did  not  come  in  and  Mrs.  Hunter  went 
home  to  the  company  of  a  French  novel.  ^/ 


XVI 


|IME  went  its  lavish  way.  The  weeks 
passed  and  Mrs.  Hunter  gradually  be- 
came more  and  more  important  to  John 
Fairthorne.  Several  things  helped  her. 
Mary  disliked  the  uninteresting  work 
of  mere  cataloguing,  but  did  it  at  need  with  the  hon- 
esty and  dutifulness  she  brought  to  all  the  tasks  of 
life.  Kitty  hated  and  did  not  do  it— in  fact,  was 
incompetent.  She  caressed  and  kissed  her  uncle  and 
slyly  fled.  Mrs.  Hunter  relieved  them  both. 

One  day  Dr.  Archer  came  in  and  found  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter reading  aloud  to  Mr.  Fairthorne  Landor's  "Im- 
aginary Conversations."  She  read  well,  but  not 
better  than  Mary,  who  liked  to  read  to  him  because 
he  usually  fancied  the  English  classics  and  on  his 
better  days  was  interestingly  critical.  Archer  was  a 
little  surprised.  He  paused  a  moment,  pleased  with 
the  voice  as  it  rose  and  fell. 

"You  read  admirably,"  he  said.  Mrs.  Hunter 
started  a  little. 

"Thank  you.  Let  me  detain  you  a  moment  as 
you  go  out. ' ' 

When  this  occurred,  she  said  to  him  in  the  draw- 
ing-room : 

"Mr.  Fairthorne 's  left  arm  has  been  twitching  all 
day." 

143 


144  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Yes,  I  noticed  it— an  old  symptom.  Where  is 
Miss  Mary?" 

"She  is  lying  down." 

"Not  ill?"  he  said,  quickly. 

"I  do  not  know.  She  has  sent  for  Dr.  Soper. 
Rather  an  old-fashioned  kind  of  M.D.,  I  fancy." 
Archer  contributed  no  comment  and  she  went  on: 
"If  you  will  kindly  tell  me  what  you  want  done,  I 
will  see  to  it  until  Miss  Mary  can  do  so.  Miss  Kath- 
erine  is  out.  Is  Mr.  Fairthorne  very  ill?  Is  he  in 
any  danger?"  The  service  she  was  performing 
Archer  had  of  course  observed.  The  question  seemed 
natural. 

"He  may  live  a  year  or  two,  or  die  at  any  hour. 
The  family  know  what  is  my  opinion." 

"He  has  been  very  good  to  me.  I  shall  be  at 
your  orders. ' ' 

Archer  gave  her  the  needed  directions,  which  in- 
volved some  changes.  She  pleased  him  by  her  accu- 
racy and  the  intelligence  of  her  questions  and  he 
went  away  well  satisfied.  Nor  was  Mrs.  Hunter  less 
pleased.  To  do  full  justice  to  these  new  duties  made 
it  needful  that  she  should  return  in  the  afternoons. 
What  could  have  been  more  lucky!  She  was  not 
eager  for  Miss  Fairthorne 's  recovery. 

But  no  human  sky  is  long  cloudless.  There  was 
Lionel.  She  was  thinking  of  him  when,  returning, 
she  found  Mr.  Fairthorne  dozing  over  a  book.  She 
sat  down  as  if  to  work,  but  really  for  a  chance  to 
consider  tranquilly  certain  too  urgent  questions. 
Usually,  when  new  to  a  place,  Lionel  was  sure  to  be 
for  a  little  while  attentive  to  his  work,  and  to  make 


CIRCUMSTANCE  145 

no  serious  claims  upon  her  purse ;  but  now,  although 
he  had  been  only  a  few  weeks  in  Grace's  office,  he 
was  every  few  days  asking  her  for  loans  which  were 
such  only  in  name.  Worse  still,  she  had  received  a 
curt  note  from  the  banker's  partner  stating  that 
^  Lionel  was  so  unpunctual  that  he  must  either  reform 
or  leave  the  office. 

As  if  to  emphasize  her  annoyance,  Craig  was 
bored,  tired  of  the  little  ladies,  and  was  picking  up 
idle  company,  for  want  of  better,  as  he  said.  Mrs. 
Hunter  felt  him  to  be  a  sad  encumbrance,  but  he 
was  the  one  thing  on  earth  she  loved  better  than  she 
loved  Lucretia  Hunter. 

She  put  him  aside  for  the  time,  and  turned  over 
the  autographs.  She  had  been  well  educated,  and, 
more  lazy  in  body  than  in  mind,  had  found  in  her 
present  surroundings  a  great  deal  that  honestly  in- 
terested and  much  about  which  she  pretended  inter- 
est. Above  all,  there  were  ease  and  luxury.  Just 
now  a  portfolio  of  musical  autographs  attracted  her. 
She  looked  them  over  carelessly.  There  were  scores 
or  portions  of  them  by  Schubert,  Haydn,  Mendels- 
sohn, a  song  with  Beethoven's  setting.  Each  was  in 
a  cover  with  the  date  and  place  of  purchase  and  the 
price.  She  read  their  values  with  amazement  and 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  temptation  and  an  idea  that 
here,  in  case  of  need,  might  be  a  valuable  resource. 
The  risk  would  be  small.  She  was  capable  of  long- 
continued  use  of  evil  means,  but  had  never  stolen, 
and  had  a  certain  fear  of  definite  crime.  Hearing 
some  one  on  the  stair,  she  closed  the  portfolio  and 
went  down. 

10 


146  CIRCUMSTANCE 

It  was  Dr.  Soper,  who  had  been  to  visit  Miss  Fair- 
thorne. 

"Dr.  Soper,  I  believe.  I  am  Mrs.  Hunter,  Mr. 
Fairthorne's—  She  hesitated  and  added:  "Mr. 
Fairthorne's  amanuensis.  Since  Miss  Mary's  indis- 
position  I  have  been  taking  care  of  her  uncle.  For 
three  days  now  she  has  been  off  duty  and  her  uncle 
desires  me  to  ask  when  she  will  be  up." 

"Oh,  very  soon." 

' '  And  will  she  then  be  fit  to  read  to  him,  write  his 
letters,  attend  to  his  diet?  You  understand.  He 
exacts  a  good  deal. ' ' 

He  seemed  to  reflect,  and  then  said : 

"That  is  another  matter,  quite.  I  shall  think 
of  it.  There  is  no  haste.  Perhaps,  later,  a  brief 
absence  might  be  desirable  before,  I  may  say,  re- 
suming her  duties. ' ' 

"What  an  admirable  counselor!"  thought  Lucre- 
tia.  "May  I  ask  what  is  wrong  with  Miss  Fair- 
thorne  ? ' ' 

He  had  the  long-since  acquired  affectation  of 
seeming  to  pause  for  reflection  before  replying  to 
even  a  simple  question.  Mrs.  Hunter  was  keenly 
considering  him. 

Dr.  Soper  was  fat,  rosy,  gray  of  head,  and  wore 
the  old-fashioned  side  whisker.  He  had  a  look  of 
mellow  prosperity.  Mentally,  he  was  competent 
enough  when  alone  in  a  case,  but  was  apt  to  yield 
to  a  colleague's  opinion,  and,  in  the  face  of  a  pa- 
tient's obstinacy,  to  give  way  or  modify  an  un- 
pleasant order.  Perhaps  this  contributed  with  many 
kindly  qualities  to  make  him  popular.  Unfortu- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  147 

nately,  the  confusing  in-rush  of  novel  ideas  and  new 
medicines  found  him  unable  to  select  or  to  sit  in 
judgment,  so  that  he  lazily  accepted  and  hopelessly 
failed  to  digest  or  assimilate  the  new  knowledge.  It 
was  Dr.  Soper's  belief  that  he  must  always  be  up  to 
the  hour,  and  he  liked  to  say  so.  Dimly  conscious 
of  indecisiveness,  he  disliked  consultations. 

He  stood  handling  the  bunch  of  seals  on  his  watch- 
guard  as  he  answered  her  very  simple  request  to 
know  what  was  wrong  with  his  patient. 

"My  dear  Mary,"  he  replied,  "is  a  little  tired — 
overworked;  perhaps,  too,  a  touch  of  the  prevalent 
influenza.  Nothing  worse. ' '  Mary  was  never  tired, 
but  this  doctor  said  every  one  was  overworked. 

"Miss  Katherine,"  he  continued,  "remarked  that 
you  thought  Atlantic  City  might  be  advisable  when 
her  cousin  was  better." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  may  have  said  so.  A  very  good  idea, 
but  it  was  Miss  Katherine  who  suggested  it,  not  I. 
I  never  meddle." 

"Well,  I  will  bear  it  in  mind.  Good  morning; 
you  do  not  look  as  if  you  would  ever  profit  my  pro- 
fession, Mrs.  Hunter." 

"Ah,  Dr.  Soper,  I  am  glad  you  reminded  me.  I 
was  about  to  ask  if  you  thought  that  in  insomnia 
small  doses  of  chloral  would  do  harm." 

"No,  no;  but  certainly  only  under  advice." 

"And  are  not  bromides  safer?" 

"Oh,  decidedly!     You  are  quite  safe  with  them." 

"I  am  often  sleepless.  Some  time  I  must  ask  you 
to  advise  me  at  length. ' ' 

' '  With  pleasure.     Fine  woman ! "  he  murmured. 


148  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"What  a  medical  Polonius!"  laughed  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter. "A  nice  old  weather-cock.  He  may  answer  in 
case  of  need." 

Mary  was  with  difficulty  kept  in  bed  for  three  or 
four  days.  When,  in  Dr.  Soper's  opinion,  she  was 
able  to  move  about  he  advised  with  unusual  empha- 
sis a  fortnight's  rest  by  the  sea.  To  the  surprise  of 
Mrs.  Hunter,  Mary  eagerly  assented.  Kitty  gener- 
ously insisted  that  she  should  take  with  her  the  maid 
whose  service  they  were  supposed  to  share  equally. 
When,  also,  her  uncle  bade  her  good-bye  and  gave 
her  a  very  ample  check  and  hoped  she  would  enjoy 
the  ocean,  Mary  felt  that  every  one  was  good  to 
her,  and  spent  no  thought  upon  the  causes  of  such 
unanimous  helpfulness. 

In  fact,  she  was  glad  to  go.  Kitty's  too  evident 
transgressions  troubled  her  and  she  saw  with  regret 
that  she,  who  alone  of  the  family  had  been  able  to 
influence  the  wilful  beauty,  was  losing  control;  so 
that  now  it  was  Mrs.  Hunter  to  whom  Kitty  referred 
the  many  small  questions  of  a  petty  existence.  More- 
over, Mrs.  Hunter  was  becoming  more  essential  to 
John  Fairthorne  than  was  pleasant  to  his  niece,  who 
found  awkward  the  changing  relations  which  were 
fast  developing.  Feeling  the  strain  of  it  all,  she 
confessed  her  own  inability  to  supply  remedies. 
Then,  too,  there  was  a  more  intimate  question  which 
at  times  urgently  asked  the  hospitality  of  attention. 

She  went  away,  glad  of  escape.  When  Madge 
promised  that  in  a  day  or  two  she  should  have  Jack 
as  company  she  was  altogether  delighted.  She  left 
without  the  slightest  suspicion  that  she  owed  her 


CIECUMSTANCE  149 

holiday  to  Mrs.  Hunter's  provident  care  and  to  that 
lady's  desire  to  be  alone  for  a  season  with  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne  and  Kitty. 

When  Miss  Morrow  received  her  rector's  note, 
stating  that  he  could  no  longer  act  as  her  spiritual 
director,  she  promptly  declared  to  Mrs.  Hunter  that 
she  had  of  late  become  doubtful  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
confession,  and  could  not  consent  to  be  coldly  trans- 
ferred to  some  one  who  would  not  comprehend  her 
spiritual  wants.  Mrs.  Hunter,  on  the  whole,  agreed 
with  her.  Kitty  ceased  to  go  to  confession,  but  as- 
siduously attended  Mr.  Knellwood's  services  at  St. 
Agnes 's. 

For  a  week  after  her  sister's  departure  Margaret 
made  it  a  daily  duty  to  visit  her  uncle,  but  very 
soon  found  that  there  was  little  for  her  to  do.  Mrs. 
Hunter  usually  left  her  free  to  talk  with  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne,  but  he  was  apt,  shortly,  to  ask: 

''Where  is  Mrs.  Hunter?" 

Margaret  began  to  feel  uneasy  at  this  growing 
attachment. 

"It  is  so  sudden,"  she  thought,  but,  being  a  person 
who  prided  herself  on  not  acting  without  reasons, 
she  was  not  embarrassed,  like  Mary,  by  the  predic- 
tions of  an  active  imagination. 

The  absolute  control  Mrs.  Hunter  was  gaining 
over  Kitty  was  also  becoming  too  obvious  to  escape 
Margaret's  notice.  She  did  not  like  it,  and  liked 
it  less  because  she  did  not  understand  it.  It  an- 
noyed her,  though  not  as  it  did  Mary,  because,  un- 
like her  sister,  she  had  neither  affection  nor  respect 
for  Katherine  Morrow. 


150  CIRCUMSTANCE 

A  larger  experience  might  have  explained  the 
cause  of  Lucretia's  conquest  of  a  girl  so  difficult  to 
attach.  It  was  due  in  part,  as  has  been  said,  to  her 
power  to  feed  Kitty's  vanity  with  very  gross  flattery, 
and  in  part  to  that  singular  influence  of  an  older 
woman  over  one  younger,  which  has  caused  much 
mischief  and  is  difficult  to  ^xpjam. 

Nearly  a  fortnight  had  gone  by,  and  one  morning 
just  before  Mary  was  expected  to  return  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne  said  to  Margaret : 

"I  am  going  to  secure  Mrs.  Hunter's  full  services 
as  my  secretary.  Mary  is  absent." 

"But  she  is  coming  home  at  once." 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  he  replied,  irritably. 
"Kitty  is  valueless.  I  must  get  more  efficient  help." 

"You  must  do  as  you  think  best,"  she  said,  coldly. 
"Mary  will  be  hurt,  and  is  by  no  means  valueless." 

He  made  no  comment  on  this,  but  said : 

"I  want  you  to  ask  Mrs.  Hunter  to  your  house, 
my  dear. ' ' 

Margaret  was  annoyed. 

"My  dear  uncle,"  she  said,  "of  course  what  you 
want  I  will  do.  You  know  that  both  Mary  and  I 
try  in  all  ways  to  carry  out  your  wishes.  But  we 
know  nothing  of  this  woman,  except  that  suddenly 
you  announce  her  as  your  secretary.  She  is  simply 
a  clever  woman  Kitty  has  picked  up,  and  whom  she 
pesters  me  to  present  to  our  friends."  Margaret 
spoke  with  unusual  heat.  She  meant  to  yield,  but  not 
until  she  had  had  her  say.  She  was  surprised  that 
her  uncle  did  not  show  any  sign  of  the  anger  which 
contradictory  objections  to  his  will  were  pretty  sure 


CIBCUMSTANOE  151 

to  awaken.  Having,  however,  been  well  schooled,  he 
replied  quietly  and  with  but  slight  impatience  in 
his  tone: 

"My  dear  Margaret,  I  have  long  wanted  more 
regular  help.  I  hoped  to  relieve  Mary.  She  has 
made  no  complaint.  So  much  for  the  secretary,  and 
now  let  me  say  I  have  done  my  duty  by  you  two 
girls  and  your  estates.  I  never  have  asked  of  you 
a  favor.  Now  I  do,  and  you  say  no." 

"I  did  not  say  no." 

"Well,  you  made  it  plain  enough."  He  was  los- 
ing his  temper.  She  looked  at  the  excited  old  man, 
with  his  handsome,  well-bred  face,  now  irregularly 
red,  and  saw  the  tremor  of  the  left  hand  as  it  rapped 
in  a  kind  of  spasm  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  She 
was  alarmed. 

"My  dear  uncle,  I  will  do  anything  you  want." 

' '  I  knew  you  would.  Mary  fights  and  argues  and 
contradicts  me,  and  I  am  a  broken  old  man  and  fail- 
ing fast. ' '  To  hear  him  plead  weakness  was  strange. 
As  she  again  assured  him  of  her  willingness,  the 
servant  said : 

"Mr.  Masters."    Margaret  rose. 

"No,  do  not  go  yet.  Harry  has  been  away  very 
long.  I  suppose  we  shall  soon  hear  more  from  him 
about  those  coal-lands.  When  do  you  look  for 
him  ? ' ' 

She  thought  in  about  a  week;  that  would  be  on 
Monday,  and  Mary  seemed  to  be  enjoying  Jack  and 
the  sea. 

She  rose  to  speak  to  her  old  friend  Masters,  say- 
ing gaily,  as  her  uncle  greeted  him : 


152  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"What,  no  ducks  at  Currituck  or  the  Island!  I 
hoped  for  a  brace  or  two  of  canvasbacks. " 

"It  is  no  joking  matter.  It  is  getting  to  be  seri- 
ous. The  ducks  are  disappearing.  Some  rascals  in 
Canada  or  Alaska  are  stealing  the  eggs  for  Lord 
knows  what!" 

"You  should  represent  the  matter  at  Washington, 
Tom, ' '  said  Fairthorne,  laughing.  ' '  I  foresee  inter- 
national complications. ' ' 

"It  is  awful,"  said  Tom.  Madge  sympathized, 
and  again  rose  to  go. 

"No,  do  not  go,  Madge.  Sit  down.  How  have 
you  been,  Tom  ?  What  do  you  want  ?  No  one  comes 
here  who  does  not  want  something." 

"For  shame!"  cried  Margaret. 

"My  wants  are  few,"  said  Masters.  "If  I  could 
have  another  big  war  and  decent  cause  for  it,  I 
should  be  happy.  As  it  is,  I  kill  things  and  loll 
about  clubs.  Don't  look  at  me,  Madge,  with  that 
look  of  suggested  duties.  How  are  the  brats?" 

"Oh,  well.     Come  in  on  Saturday,  after  dinner." 

"One  minute,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  walk  with 
you.  I  want  to  ask  Mr.  Fairthorne  a  question.  It 
may  concern  you  and  Harry." 

Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  a  moderate 
amount  of  stock  of  the  Republic  Trust  Company, 
and  thought  he  would  like  to  ask  Mr.  Fairthorne  if 
it  still  enjoyed  his  confidence.  He  had  heard,  of 
late,  unpleasant  rumors.  There  was  nothing  defi- 
nite. Fairthorne  had  once  been  a  shrewd  adviser, 
and,  as  often  happens  to  the  old,  his  keenness  as  to 
business  was  rather  increased  by  that  fear  of  pov- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  153 

erty  which  is  one  of  the  haunting  apprehensions  of 
declining  life.  He  said : 

"Why  not  sell?  Why  risk  the  holding  of  your 
stock?" 

"But,  by  George,  it  pays  ten  per  cent." 

"Does  it?  I  had  forgotten  that.  You  sold  your 
stock,  Madge  ?  Harry  is  their  counsel,  I  believe. ' ' 

"Yes,  yes,  he  is  their  counsel." 

"And  yet  he  sold?  I  hold  a  good  deal  of  it  my- 
self. Harry  ought  to  have  told  me." 

"We  wanted  the  money  for  the  house.  He  did 
not  then  distrust  it." 

"And  does  now?"  said  her  uncle,  quickly. 
"Where  is  my  property  book?  Call  Mrs.  Hunter, 
Madge." 

"Cannot  I  find  it,  Uncle  John?" 

"Call  Mrs.  Hunter."  When  she  appeared,  he 
asked  her  to  bring  the  book  with  a  schedule  of  per- 
sonal property.  She  said:  "Yes,  the  red  cover," 
and  promptly  set  it  on  the  table.  Madge  sat  still, 
confounded.  He  usually  kept  these  books  locked  up 
and  rather  jealously  guarded  from  other  eyes  than 
his  own. 

"Turn  to  the  stock  index  and  find  the  Eepublic 
Trust  stock. ' '  Madge  watched  her,  as  she  seemed  in 
doubt  and  unable  to  find  it.  At  last  she  said  as  much. 

"Can't  find  the  index!"  he  cried.  "You  made  it 
a  week  ago." 

It  was  found  at  last.  He  looked  at  the  page  and 
said:  "It  stood  well  when  I  bought  it.  You  had 
better  ask  Harry  Swanwick  or  one  of  the  directors. 
Who  are  they?" 


154  CIRCUMSTANCE 

When  Tom  named  several  of  them,  Mr.  Fairthorne 
said: 

' '  Oh,  Grace !  Decent  sort  of  fellow,  I  hear.  Man- 
age to  see  him;  put  it  in  business  shape — you 
think  of  selling  to  reinvest.  Ask  what  he  advises. 
Don't  ask  him  directly  whether  this  stock  is  good  to 
hold  as  a  permanent  investment.  As  a  director,  he 
might  be  disinclined  to  advise.  Put  it  the  other 
way."  Tom  was  amused  at  a  form  of  over-shrewd- 
ness he  himself  did  not  possess  and  was  little  likely 
to  utilize,  being  as  straightforward  a  man  in  his  way 
as  the  able  master  of  finance  to  whom  he  was  advised 
to  apply. 

Tom  rose,  thanking  Mr.  Fairthorne,  to  whom,  as 
his  father's  executor,  he  was  apt  to  turn  for  counsel. 
In  fact,  he  had  made  the  investment  in  question  long 
before  by  Mr.  Fairthorne 's  advice,  but  was  careful 
not  to  say  so. 

As  he  went  down  the  stairway  with  Mrs.  Swan- 
wick  he  said : 

"Has  your  uncle  much  of  that  stock?" 

"I  do  not  know.  He  is  very  secretive  as  to  all 
his  property.  Harry  does  not  know.  Uncle  often 
asks  Harry's  advice  as  to  affairs,  but  he  never  men- 
tions amounts." 

"This  Mrs.  Hunter  appears  to  know,"  said  Tom, 
with  a  queer,  half -puzzled  look  made  up  of  a  mild 
frown  and  a  smile. 

"Yes,  so  it  seems." 

"What  is  she  doing  here,  Madge?" 

"She  is  my  uncle's  secretary." 

' '  Indeed !  I  should  have  chosen  a  man  were  I  you, 
or  a  woman  with  a  worse  figure." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  155 

"I  did  not  choose  her." 

"I  fancy  she  chose  herself,  Madge." 

' '  That  is  too  true,  Tom.  Wait  a  minute.  I  have 
to  ask  her  to  my  house.  I  promised  my  uncle,  I 
suppose  I  must  do  it. ' ' 

"Ask  me,  too.     She  is  very  amusing." 

"Well,  that  is  as  may  be.  My  uncle  wants  me  to 
ask  her.  I  could  not  refuse." 

"Refuse!  Why  should  you,  Madge?  She  went 
everywhere  in  Newport  and  was  really  liked  in 
Boston. ' ' 

"Newport  is  not  my  house.  Well,  no  matter. 
Wait  a  minute."  Margaret  went  back  to  the  li- 
brary. Mrs.  Hunter,  standing  beside  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne,  was  holding  his  hand  and  talking.  Madge 
caught  a  phrase  or  two,  as  Mrs.  Hunter  said : 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,  you  will  hardly  be  as  comfort- 
able when  Mary  comes  home." 

"But  you  won't  leave  me — " 

"Mary!"  murmured  Mrs.  Swan  wick. 

Lucretia  moved  in  haste,  taken  by  surprise  as  Mar- 
garet entered.  Mrs.  Swanwick  was  acquiring  dis- 
tinct enough  reasons  for  not  liking  the  secretary. 
Nevertheless,  she  had  no  mind  to  disoblige  her  uncle. 

"I  came  back,  Mrs.  Hunter,  to  ask  you  to  come 
in  on  Saturday  night,  after  nine,  please.  I  am  usu- 
ally at  home  on  that  evening,  and  this  time  you  will 
be  sure  to  find  a  few  pleasant  people.  It  is  quite 
informal. ' '  Having  resolved  to  please  her  uncle,  she 
delivered  her  invitation  with  as  much  cordiality  as 
she  could  command. 

Mrs.  Hunter  would  have  the  "utmost  pleasure." 
She  was  a  little  embarrassed,  wondering  if  she  had 


156  CIRCUMSTANCE 

been  overheard.  She  swiftly  concluded,  from  Mrs. 
i  Swanwick's  pleasant  ease  of  manner,  that  she  had 
^  not.  It  is  never  well  to  underrate  other  actresses. 

Margaret  went  down-stairs  furious,  and  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter had  an  enemy  added  and  one  neither  to  be  de- 
spised nor  readily  dealt  with. 

"Do  not  forget  me  on  Saturday  night,  Tom. 
Harry  may  not  be  at  home,  but  Mary  will  be,  so  she 
writes  me."  She  left  him  at  his  club,  and  walked  on 
to  her  own  house,  deep  in  thought. 

' '  Mary,  indeed !     What  insolence ! ' ' 


XVII 

(HE  next  morning  Mrs.  Hunter  com- 
plained that  there  were  evil  odors 
about  the  house,  and  Kitty  was  easily 
persuaded  that  a  slight  leakage  of  gas 
was  really  some  defect  in  the  drainage. 
John  Fairthorne,  always  anxious  about  health,  sent 
at  once  for  Archer,  who  naturally  prescribed  a  resort 
to  the  plumber.  Then  Mrs.  Hunter  saw  Dr.  Soper, 
and  he,  in  turn,  advised  Mary  by  letter  to  remain 
away  until  the  house  was  set  in  order.  Mary  re- 
plied that  she  was  tired  of  the  sea  and  would  go  for 
a  week  to  her  sister 's,  which  suited  Mrs.  Hunter  very 
nearly  as  well. 

One  morning,  a  day  or  two  before  her  cousin's  ex- 
pected return,  Kitty  complained  that  she  needed 
exercise,  and  that  Dr.  Soper  had  said  that  she  ought 
to  ride.  Mrs.  Hunter  asked  why,  as  Miss  Mary  was 
away,  she  did  not  use  her  horse.  Kitty,  who  rode 
in  summer  a  quiet  little  mare,  replied  that  her  cousin 
would  not  like  it. 

"My  dear,"  said  Lucretia,  "she  really  should  be 
obliged  to  you.  The  horse  ought  to  be  exercised 
more."  Kitty,  over  persuaded,  tried  it  twice,  and 
then  gave  it  up  in  terror,  and  none  too  soon,  for 
Mary  telegraphed  Madge  on  Saturday  morning  that 
157 


168  CIRCUMSTANCE 

she  would  return  that  evening  and  remain  with  them 
a  week.  She  had  concluded  that  she  had  had  quite 
>/  enough  of  the  ugliest  seaside  town  on  the  coast. 

The  day  after  Mr.  Masters  saw  John  Fairthorne 
he  called  on  Mr.  Grace,  just  at  the  close  of  his  busi- 
ness hours,  and  sent  in  his  card.  As  he  passed  into 
the  banker's  office  Lionel  Craig  came  out.  He  was 
flushed  and  angry,  Mr.  Grace  having  told  him  that 
his  books  were  badly  kept,  and  that  but  for  the  fact 
that  he  had  promised  his  sister  to  give  him  another 
trial  he  would  have  at  once  dismissed  him.  Craig 
was  more  hurt  than  helped  by  the  warning,  but  for 
a  time  it  proved  effectual.  The  well-dressed,  well- 
built  gentleman  glanced  with  approval  at  the  figure, 
and  with  surprise  at  the  dress,  of  the  clerk,  and  won- 
dered whom  he  resembled. 

Mr.  Grace,  who  had  long  had  a  club  acquaintance 
with  Masters,  and  knew  very  well  who  he  was,  said : 

"Sit  down.     How  can  I  oblige  you?" 

Quite  neglecting  Fairthorne 's  advice,  Tom  said : 

"I  want  to  ask  you,  if  I  may,  whether  the  Repub- 
lic Trust  stock  is  a  safe  investment,  or  should  I  sell 
and  invest  in  something  else?  Kindly  consider  this 
as  a  matter  of  business." 

The  banker  smiled. 

"It  is  a  rather  uncommon  form  of  question.  Usu- 
ally my  upper  clerks  or  juniors  answer  such  ques- 
tions or  do  not ;  for,  really,  Mr.  Masters,  it  is  not 
usual  to  give  advice  in  the  form  you  desire.  If  you 
wish  us  to  sell  for  you  and  to  advise  as  to  investment 
we  will  do  so. ' ' 

Tom  laughed. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  159 

''Suppose,  sir,  I  ask  if  I  shall  invest  in  the  Re- 
public?" 

Grace,  much  amused,  replied : 

"Mr.  Masters,  I  was  a  director  of  the  Trust.  I 
have  lately  resigned.  I  do  not  altogether  like  their 
ways.  I  can  give  no  advice — at  least,  no  direct 
advice. ' ' 

" Thank  you." 

"And  if  you  act  on  what  I  have  said,  kindly  con- 
sider what  has  passed  here  as  absolutely  confidential. 
Can  I  further  serve  you  ?  No  ?  Well,  you  will  find 
Mr.  Owens  outside.  I  think  you  will  sell  your  stock, ' ' 
he  added,  smiling. 

"I  will,"  said  Tom.     Then  he  paused,  and  said: 

"I  have  an  old  friend,  Mr.  John  Fairthorne,  who 
holds,  I  suspect,  a  good  deal  of  this  stock." 

"Then  it  is  held  by  a  man  quite  fit  to  take  care 
of  himself.  I  have,  Mr.  Masters,  a  weakness  for 
you  men  who  were  deep  in  the  war  while  I  was 
grubbing  for  dollars.  It  is  one  of  the  regrets  of 
my  life  that  I  was  not  in  it.  Generally,  I  should 
have  declined  to  answer  in  any  shape.  You  are  wise 
enough  to  know  that  I  did  answer." 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  "that  is  the  first  good  I  ever 
got  out  of  the  war." 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Masters;  you  got  a  great  deal  be- 
sides. By  the  way,  is  your  friend  Swanwick  at  home 
yet?"  He  was  well  aware  of  their  intimacy.  "Mrs. 
Swanwick  expected  him  within  a  day  or  two. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  know. ' ' 

"I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Swan  wick's  on  Saturday 
night,"  said  Grace.  It  was  irrelevant,  but  the 


160  CIRCUMSTANCE 

banker  was  pleased  to  have  been  asked  and  liked  to 
speak  of  it.  Tom,  perfectly  understanding  him, 
said: 

"  Before  I  go  I  want  to  say  how  much  I  thank 
you."  Grace  smiled,  pleased  with  himself  and 
Masters. 

Tom  sold  his  stock  at  no  loss,  as  it  was  still  far 
over  par,  but  falling  and  rising  again,  being,  as  a 
rule,  firmly  held  and  long  thought  to  be  secure. 

When  Masters  left,  Mr.  Grace  asked  to  see  his 
partner.  They  talked  gravely  awhile,  and  then 
Grace,  left  alone,  walked  up  and  down  his  office  re- 
flecting. At  last  he  sat  down  and  wrote : 

"  [Private.] 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  You  know  that  my  dissatisfaction  with  the  recent 
management  of  your  company  caused  me  to  resign  my  seat  in 
your  board.  I  have  excused  myself,  outside  of  it,  as  having  too 
many  such  offices.  You  know  how  frankly  I  urged  on  the  finance 
committee  my  utter  disapproval  of  some  of  their  Western  in- 
vestments. I  need  not  further  remind  you  of  what  more  I  said. 
I  am  constantly  hearing  unpleasant  rumors,  and  observe  that 
the  stock  is  going  down  by  degrees.  We  are,  I  think,  in  a  bad 
way  just  now,  and  for  this  reason  I  do  not  care  to  throw  my 
own  large  holding  on  the  market.  I  greatly  fear  money 
troubles  in  the  spring.  If  you  are  in,  or  get  into,  real  difficul- 
ties, it  will  be  needful  to  support  so  old  and  important  an  in- 
stitution. Let  me  hear  frankly  and  soon.  Do  not  leave  it 
until  help  is  useless. 

"Yours  truly, 

"  ROGER  GRACE." 

"  To  CYBCS  THURSTON,  ESQ." 

He  read  it  over  and  said  to  himself : 

"That  will  answer.     They  will  pull  through  if  we 


CIRCUMSTANCE  161 

have  no  abrupt  mischief  in  the  Western  banks." 
Then  he  rang. 

When  the  clerk  appeared,  he  said:  "Mr.  Jones, 
see  that  Mr.  Thurston  gets  this  letter  as  you  go  to 
lunch. ' ' 

Jones  was  just  going  out  for  his  midday  meal,  and 
walked  up-town  with  Craig,  to  whom  he  said,  as  they 
came  near  to  the  Trust  office :  "You  run  in  and  give 
this  to  Mr.  Thurston.  See  that  he  gets  it.  I  am  in 
a  hurry.  See  you  at  lunch.  I  guess  it  's  impor- 
tant." 

Craig  replied,  "All  right,"  and  his  friend  left 
him. 

Craig  looked  at  the  letter  and  felt  that  the  closing 
mucilage  was  still  damp.  He  had  a  sudden  and 
childlike  desire  to  see  what  was  within.  He  knew, 
as  did  others,  that  the  brokers  felt  a  little  suspicious 
as  to  this  company.  It  might  be  useful  to  know. 
Stocks  were  moving  uneasily.  He  stepped  aside 
into  another  street  and  tried  the  envelope  to  see  if 
the  adhesive  paste  had  made  it  too  secure.  It  opened 
readily.  He  read  it  with  dull  interest,  not  seeing 
that  it  was  or  could  be  of  any  value  to  him  to  know 
its  contents. 

He  found  Mr.  Thurston  and  delivered  it,  seeing, 
although  of  a  not  very  alert  intelligence,  that  the 
Trust's  president  was  discomposed  as  he  read  and 
reread  the  letter.  "No,  there  was  no  answer." 

When,  that  evening,  he  sat  with  his  sister,  who 
was  in  high  spirits  and  was  glad  of  a  cigarette,  he 
gaily  related  this  exploit.  Strange  to  say,  it  seri- 
ously troubled  her  that  he  had  opened  the  letter. 
11 


162  CIRCUMSTANCE 

She  herself  would  have  done  so  without  the  least 
hesitation,  but  she  wanted  this  man  to  be  what  she 
was  not,  and  scrupulously  hid  from  him  whatever 
of  actual  wrong-doing  she  had  put  into  her  own  life. 
As  they  had  usually  lived  apart,  this  had  been  easy. 

' '  Oh,  Lionel ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  How  could  you  do  such 
a  thing?"  That  he  should  so  calmly  have  confessed 
it  to  her  as  rather  a  good  joke  on  the  banker  seemed 
to  her  acuteness  evidence  that  Lionel  believed  she 
would  show  no  disapproval.  Did  he  think  that  of 
her?  She  wanted  him  to  love  her,  to  think  well  of 
her,  even  to  respect  her.  She  was  so  severe  that  he 
felt  he  had  been  a  fool  to  tell  her.  He  weakened,  as 
he  always  did  under  her  hand,  and  at  last  promised, 
as  usual,  all  manner  of  good  behavior. 

After  this  they  talked  of  the  theaters,  and  finally 
of  Kitty.  He  had,  of  course,  enjoyed  his  walk  on 
Sunday  with  his  sister  and  Miss  Katherine.  When 
he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Hunter  sat  down  to  think.  So 
far  she  had  done  well.  She  had  become  necessary  to 
Mr.  Fairthorne ;  Miss  Fairthorne  was  out  of  the  way 
for  a  time ;  Mrs.  Swanwick  had  asked  her  to  her 
house.  She  was  in  a  fair  way  to  make  mischief  be- 
tween Mary  and  Kitty  Morrow.  The  doctor  was  in 
her  road,  and  for  some  reason  was  coldly  civil  and  no 
more.  He  had  said  that  his  orders  must  be  carried 
out,  and  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  had  ideas  of  her  own  as 
to  treatment,  had  been  reminded  most  distinctly  that 
he  was  to  be  obeyed.  He  was  altogether  impervious 
to  flattery  and  neither  to  be  cajoled  nor  bullied.  Mrs. 
Hunter  lacked  the  talent  for  letting  things  alone. 
She  need  not  have  interfered  with  Archer,  but  the 


CIECUMSTANCE  163 

desire  for  petty  rule  was  deeply  set  in  her  nature, 
and  made  her  incline  to  cross  swords  needlessly  with 
a  man  of  whom  she  had  better  not  have  made  a  foe. 

He  had  begun,  soon  after  Miss  Fairthorne  left,  to 
feel  continually  that  there  was  some  interference, 
some  excuse  for  a  failure  to  carry  out  orders;  or  if 
he  forbade  the  usual  drive  Mr.  Fairthorne  must  have 
misunderstood,  because  Mrs.  Hunter  had  said  that 
was  only  in  case  the  east  wind  continued.  This 
sense  of  a  hostile  atmosphere,  of  inexplicable  and  in- 
tangible opposition,  began  to  annoy  Archer.  Every 
physician  must,  at  some  time,  have  been  made  to 
feel  as  he  now  did,  and  few  things  are  harder  to  bear. 

As  to  Archer's  intermittent  attention  to  Kitty, 
Mrs.  Hunter  was  easy.  He  had  but  little  leisure, 
and  she  herself  was  well  informed  as  to  Kitty 's  senti- 
ments. The  real  peril  was  in  the  clergyman,  of 
whom,  Mrs.  Hunter  observed,  the  girl,  for  some  latent 
cause,  no  longer  spoke  as  Father  Knellwood. 
/  "I  must  live  in  that  house, ' '  thought  Mrs.  Hunter ; 
"but  how  am  I  to  manage  it?"  It  would  be  pleas- 
ant and  save  money  for  that  endless  drain,  Lionel. 
A  dozen  plans  amused  her  leisure,  as  she  sat  smok- 
ing cigarettes  in  her  hotel  chamber,  with  a  petit 
verre  of  cognac — only  one,  for  she  was  prudent  and 
sober  as  to  some  things.  Of  course,  cigarettes  would 
have  to  go  for  the  time,  but,  save  for  this,  there  was 
comfort  in  the  idea  of  a  home  in  that  luxurious 
house.  Her  day-dreams  were  queer  enough.  If  just 
a  trifle  of  something  were  to  make  Kitty  ill,  and  she 
would  have  no  nurse  save  Lucretia,  or  if  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne were  to  be  worse — well,  just  for  a  while.  She 


164  CIRCUMSTANCE 

had  become  used  to  living  on  the  margin  of  serious 
crime. 

"Once  in  that  house,"  she  said,  "I  should  stay." 

Meanwhile  she  used  her  present  advantages  with 
energetic  industry. 

While  Mary  was  away  she  spent  her  mornings  in 
Fairthorne 's  library,  intelligently  busy  with  the  cat- 
alogue, or  when  not  so  occupied  suggestive,  amusing, 
with  now  and  then  a  caressing  touch,  a  soothing 
hand.  Well,  something  would  turn  up,  or  she  must 
make  it  turn  up.  She  had  the  adventurer's  belief  in 
her  luck.  Meanwhile  she  received  from  Fairthorne 
seventy-five  dollars  a  month.  The  contents  of  that 
letter  to  Thurston  occupied  her  busy  brain  for  a  few 
minutes,  as  she  recalled  the  fact  that  Mr.  Fairthorne 
was  a  large  holder  of  the  stock.  Above  all,  was  a 
feeling  of  satisfaction  in  the  tangle  she  was  making. 
She  undressed  and  slept  the  sound  sleep  of  whole- 
some health. 

The  guests  who  chanced  to  appear  on  Saturday 
nights  at  Mrs.  Swan  wick's  were  not  always,  or  in- 
deed generally,  such  as  pleased  Miss  Morrow.  She 
rarely  did  what  she  did  not  want  to  do,  and  now,  in 
the  afternoon,  told  Mrs.  Hunter  that  the  rides  on 
that  brute  of  Mary's  had  left  her  stiff  and  sore.  She 
really  could  not  go  to  Margaret's,  and  the  horse  was 
lame  and  his  back  was  sore — as  if  that  was  any  one's 
fault.  But  what  a  row  there  would  be !  Yes,  Mrs. 
Hunter  thought  there  might  be  trouble,  some  people 
were  so  selfish. 

Mrs.  Hunter  did  not  mean  to  go  alone  to  Mrs. 
Swan  wick's.  She  made  no  direct  reply  to  Kitty's 


CIRCUMSTANCE  165 

statement  of  her  bodily  ills,  but  mentioned  casually 
that  Mr.  Knellwood  would  be  disappointed,  an  infer- 
ence which  Kitty's  vanity  eagerly  accepted.  She 
presently  said:  "If  you  would  really  like  me  to  go 
with  you  I  will  certainly  try  to  do  so ;  but,  dear  me, 
it  is  dull,  and  I  am  stiff  from  head  to  foot." 

When,  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Fairthorne's  carriage 
brought  Mrs.  Hunter  from  her  hotel  to  the  Fourth 
Street  house,  she  was  not  surprised  to  find  Kitty  in 
her  room  and  ready.  It  was  one  of  the  girl's  errors 
of  taste  to  be  rather  over-dressed,  and  as  she  stood  be- 
fore her  glass,  Mrs.  Hunter  admired  her  white  neck. 
Kitty  admired  it  no  whit  less  and  as  she  turned  from 
the  glass,  said  with  a  sigh :  "I  do  wish  I  could  wear 
Mary's  pearls.  She  never  has  worn  them,  not  once. 
When  she  was  going  she  asked  me  to  have  her  box  of 
trinkets  put  in  uncle's  safe.  I  forgot  all  about  it." 

"Let  me  see  them,  dear."  Kitty  brought  the  box, 
and  taking  a  costly  pearl  necklace  from  its  worn 
morocco  case  placed  it  in  Mrs.  Hunter's  hand.  Lu- 
cretia  said : 

"How  beautiful  they  are,  but  they  would  not  suit 
Mary's  complexion.  I  know  where  they  belong," 
and  she  clasped  them  around  Kitty's  neck,  crying: 
"Now  they  are  where  they  ought  to  be.  Oh,  Kath- 
erine,  how  they  become  you!" 

"I  really  could  n't,  I  could  n't — oh,  I  wish  I 
could !  Mary  never  lets  me  touch  them.  They  were 
Aunt  Julia's,  her  mother's.  Is  n't  it  selfish?  I 
have  often  asked  her  to  let  me  wear  them. ' ' 

"She  will  never  know." 

"Margaret  would  tell  her,  and  if  ever  you  saw 


168  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Mary  Fairthorne  angry,  you  would  n't  advise  me  to 
wear  her  pearls." 

"My  dear  child,  if  she  saw  you  now  she  would 
give  you  the  pearls.  After  all,  you  lovely  morsel, 
they  can't  eat  you  alive.  If  I  were  a  man  I  should 
simply  fall  at  your  feet." 

Kitty  looked  again  in  her  glass,  which  told  as 
sweet  a  truth. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Mary  is  not  at  home,  and—" 

"Yes,  dear,  and  you  can  ask  Mrs.  Swan  wick  not 
to  tell." 

"That  is  a  good  idea,"  said  Kitty.  The  mirror 
and  Lucretia  won  for  vanity  the  battle  against  fear. 

"It  will  make  a  pleasant  little  fuss  if  the  big 
cousin  ever  hears,"  thought  Mrs.  Hunter,  as  they 
drove  to  the  Swan  wicks';  "and  of  course  Mrs.  Swan- 
wick  will  tell.  I  would,  any  one  would.  The  girl 
will  never  ask  her  not  to  mention  it.  What  a  lovely 
fool  she  is ! " 


XVIII 

[HILE  this  debate  took  place,  and  Kitty 
was  preening  her  feathers  before  the 
cheval  glass,  too  pleased  to  anticipate 
disaster,  Margaret  was  trying,  in  her 
nursery,  to  get  away  from  the  "just 
one  more  kiss"  and  the  "do  tuck  me  in,  mudder." 
"Ah,"  she  said,  hearing  the  front-door  bell  ring, 
"that  is  Harry's  ring."  She  ran  down-stairs  in 
haste.  He  had  been  absent  nearly  a  fortnight.  It 
was  like  her,  amid  the  joy  which  set  her  heart  to 
throbbing,  that  she  reflected  on  the  individuality  of 
the  pull  on  a  bell.  She  dropped  the  train  of  thought 
as  her  husband  lifted  the  little  woman  and  kissed 
her. 

"Do  set  me  down,  Harry,"  she  cried,  as  the  bell 
rang  again.  "Oh,  that  must  be  Mary.  I  am  sure 
it  is  Mary.  She  is  just  from  the  seashore,  Harry, 
and  is  to  be  here  a  week.  Is  n  't  it  delightful ! "  It 
was  a  noble  fib,  for  just  then  she  would  far  rather 
have  been  alone  with  her  husband. 

It  was  the  travelers  who  entered.  Jack  had  been 
ordered  home  after  a  week's  delightful  digging  in 
the  sand  and  the  accumulation  of  a  fortune  in  shells. 
Mary,  very  tired  of  the  hotel  life,  was  happy  to  be 
with  her  sister,  and  was  made  warmly  welcome.  She 
167 


168  CIRCUMSTANCE 

went  at  once  up-stairs  to  her  room  to  dress,  Mar- 
garet having  said  there  were,  as  usual  on  Saturday 
night,  people  coming. 

Harry  Swan  wick  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair 
in  the  library,  and  Madge,  on  a  cushion  at  his  feet, 
rested  an  elbow  on  his  knee.  No,  he  was  not  tired, 
and  had  had  some  kind  of  a  dinner;  but  what  a 
bore  to  have  people  coming!  Madge  said  it  was 
sorrowful,  but  that  he  had  set  Monday  for  his 
return. 

"Yes,"  he  laughed,  "that  is  so,  but  I  had  three 
reasons  for  haste — two  up-stairs,  and  one  here.  Are 
they  asleep?" 

"I  fear  not,  dear.  If  you  go  up  now  my  little 
witch  will  be  awake  half  the  night." 

He  rose. 

"No,  no,  please  not,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  must  wait,  I  suppose."  In  little  and 
large  things  he  was  more  governed  than  he  knew. 
At  times  the  unsuspected  taste  for  rule  went  be- 
yond the  line  of  wisdom,  and  his  wife's  interference 
became  too  much  for  the  comfortable,  disorderly 
ways  of  man.  Once,  when  Mary  had  criticized  her 
sister,  he  had  quoted  something  about  intelligent 
despotism  and  its  value.  Mary  had  replied  that  he 
was  not  very  clear,  and  he,  in  turn,  that  what  he 
meant  was  that  his  wife  was  generally  right,  even 
when  she  bothered  him — which  was  true. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "you  must  have  ever  so  much 
to  tell  me.  Your  letters  were  exasperatingly  short, 
and  as  for  home  news,  I  have  a  horrid  budget  with 
which  I  did  not  want  to  distract  you.  Oh,  nothing 


CIECUMSTANCE  169 

serious.  But  first  about  your  cases.  I  saw  by  the 
law  reports  that  you  won  both.  About  the  coal- 
lands  I  was  not  so  sure.  Uncle  will  like  to  hear." 

"Yes,  Madge,"  he  said,  "you  were  right  about 
the  bridge  case.  The  point  you  made  concerning 
the  tolls  and  who  received  them  and  the  date  of 
their  cessation  was  difficult  to  prove,  but  when  I 
found  the  former  toll-keeper  his  evidence  settled  it." 

Madge's  face  lit  up. 

"It  was  a  great  triumph  for  you,  and  against  a 
man  like  Leslie." 

"Yes;  he  congratulated  me  later,  and  so  did  the 
judge,  and  when  I  told  them  you  had  suggested  the 
point  they  were  rather  amazed,  and  Leslie  said  you 
ought  to  have  half  the  fee.  It  will  be  large — quite 
five  thousand." 

"Oh,  Harry!  You  ought  not  to  have  mentioned 
me.  I  really  did  not — ' ' 

"Did  you  not!  I  am  not  entirely  and  always  the 
fool  of  love.  You  shall  have  all  of  the  fee. ' ' 

' '  I  would  rather  have  a  kiss. "  It  is  probable  that 
she  got  it.  "And  the  coal  suit?  I  had  nothing  to 
do  with  that,"  she  cried,  gladly. 

"Perhaps  not,  and  for  a  chamber  counsel  your 
fees  are  moderate.  I  won  it  easily,  but  the  lands 
need  care  and  Luke  Pilgrim  ought  to  be  sent  down 
there  at  once — he  or  some  other  mining  engineer. 
Your  uncle  is  being  robbed  right  and  left.  I  found 
one  of  my  old  rebel  friends  on  the  Kanawha,  and 
put  him  in  charge ;  but,  really,  Mr.  Fairthorne  must 
be  getting  very  inert  and  it  is  not  like  him  to  let 
things  go  as  he  has  done." 


170  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Madge  became  grave. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?"  He  knew  her 
ways.  "You  have  something  to  tell  me." 

"Ye-es,  Uncle  John  is  slowly  failing.  He  is  more 
irritable-" 

"More!"  he  cried. 

"Yes;  it  shows  in  many  ways.  He  is  becoming  a 
little  careless  about  his  dress,  and  that  for  him  is— 
Dr.  Archer  says  it  is  really  a  bad  sign.  He  has 
days  when  he  is  just  as  clever  and  cynical  and  pessi- 
mistic as  ever,  but  it  does  n't  last.  His  love  of 
method  has  become  a  sort  of  mania. ' ' 

"Well,  all  this,  Madge,  is  more  or  less  an  old 
story." 

"Yes,  I  know  that;  but  the  change  of  late  is  very 
marked.  He  is  feebler,  and  sleeps  more  in  the  day- 
time. ' ' 

"But  he  is  nearly  eighty,  Madge.     Is  that  all?" 

"No,  it  is  not  all.  That  Mrs.  Hunter,  whom  our 
silly  mischief,  Kitty,  picked  up  I  do  not  know  where, 
has  got  more  and  more  of  control  over  the  girl,  and 
now  she  has  contrived  to  make  herself  apparently  in- 
dispensable to  Uncle  John.  She  is  there  every  day, 
all  day,  and  she  calls  herself  his  secretary.  Prob- 
ably—oh, of  course,  he  pays  her." 

"Well,  that  ought  to  greatly  relieve  Mary  and 
Kitty." 

"Kitty— relieve  Kitty!  But  Mary  was  being  by 
degrees  set  aside— being  set  aside  before  you  left. 
And  since  Mary  has  been  absent  Mrs.  Hunter  seems 
to  have  completely  taken  her  place.  Worst  of  all, 
this  woman  sits  and  holds  his  hand,  and  really, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  171 

Harry,  in  the  last  month  she  has  seemed  essential  to 
his  comfort.  You  know  how  he  craves  attention  and 
flattery  and  the  woman  is  handsome  and  intelli- 
gent." Then  she  mentioned  the  fact  of  his  asking 
Mrs.  Hunter  to  look  over  his  schedule  of  property 
when  Masters  was  present. 

Harry  whistled  low.  For  the  first  time  her  ac- 
count disturbed  him.  He  knew  that  Fairthorne  had 
always  been  secretive  about  his  affairs  and  kept  his 
own  accounts.  He  had  often  urged  him  to  have 
some  secretarial  aid,  but  always  in  vain.  Fairthorne 
said  it  was  a  needless  expense.  He  had  all  his  life 
been  penny  saving  and  dollar  lavish,  hesitating  at 
nothing  where  a  book  or  an  autograph  was  to  be  had ; 
a  complex  nature,  now  undergoing  the  radical 
changes  caused  by  age,  which  strengthens  some  hab- 
its and  weakens  others. 

"What  you  tell  me,"  said  Harry,  "is  serious.  Is 
it  money  or  ease  she  is  after,  or  does  she  want  to 
trap  this  old  man  into  marriage?  Such  cases  have 
been.  I  must  talk  to  Archer." 

"Marriage!  I  never  thought  of  that.  That  is 
awful.  Now,  run  and  dress ;  I  must  go  down-stairs. 
Ah,  there  is  the  bell." 

"Hang  the  people!"  he  said. 

"Be  civil  to  her,  Harry.  My  uncle  has  made  me 
ask  her  here— I  mean  Mrs.  Hunter." 

"Of  course,  Madge." 

Margaret  had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  be 
gracious  to  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  would  also  talk  to 
Mary  as  to  the  wisdom  of  prudently  dealing  with 
a  situation  the  peril  of  which  she  saw  better  than 


172  CIRCUMSTANCE 

did  her  sister.  The  girls  were  both  of  them  pos- 
sessed of  moderate  fortunes,  and  until  of  late  Mar- 
garet had  found  it  needful  to  live  with  care,  and  to 
remind  her  husband,  who  was  apt  to  be  now  and 
then  extravagant,  as  he  had  been  about  her  ruby 
ring,  that  what  John  Fairthorne  might  do  with  his 
very  large  estate  no  one  could  say.  Indeed,  once,  in 
a  moment  of  irritability,  he  had  said  he  would  leave 
it  all  to  Jack,  who  must  take  his  name  and  arms. 
Harry  had  told  him  that  that  was  un-American  non- 
sense, and  the  old  man  had  sworn  outrageously  that 
he  would  do  as  he  blank  pleased. 

Soon  after  Margaret  entered  the  parlor  Mr.  Knell- 
wood  appeared.  He  had  a  gentle  gravity  of  manner 
which  went  well  with  his  large  proportions.  He  sat 
down  with  discreet  care  as  to  his  chair.  Madge,  who 
respected  him  and  rather  fancied  people  who  held 
distinct  opinions,  wondered,  like  Mary,  why  she  did 
not  like  him  better.  She  desired  always  to  be  able 
to  give  reasons  for  her  attachments,  and  this  man 
was  of  the  best.  He  never  spoke  of  things  profes- 
sional unless  led  by  others  to  do  so.  He  very  hon- 
estly believed  that  his  increasing  love  for  needlessly 
added  forms  and  ceremonial  had  a  purely  historical 
and  logical  foundation,  not  realizing  that  emotion- 
ality and  taste  for  the  mystical  were  controlling  his 
opinions.  Few  who  knew  him  only  in  his  church 
ritual,  or  among  the  poor  who  loved  him,  would  have 
supposed  that  he  would  have  instantly  turned  to 
look  at  Madge's  old  Dresden  china.  He  amazed  her 
by  his  criticism  of  the  Dresden,  and  by  his  know- 
ledge of  the  marks  of  her  old  Delft  plates. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  173 

When,  after  service  as  a  war  chaplain,  he  took  to 
improving  the  ritual  and  to  a  life  among  the  poor, 
he  sold  his  father's  collection  and  turned  himself  and 
his  income  to  more  serious  uses.  An  old  Wedge- 
wood  plaque  of  Franklin,  given  by  the  philosopher 
to  the  beauty,  Tacy  Lennox,  attracted  him,  and  he 
was  talking  agreeably  of  the  great  man  when  Tom 
Masters  came  in.  The  men  shook  hands. 

"I  do  not  see  you  as  often  as  in  the  old  war  days, 
chaplain. ' ' 

"I  am  glad  to  forget  them,  Masters.  But  not," 
he  added,  "my  old  army  friends."  He  rarely  spoke 
of  the  war.  It  was  a  dream  of  horror,  of  blood, 
griefs,  wickedness.  The  service  had  been  a  painful 
duty  admirably  done. 

"I,"  said  Masters,  "think  of  the  war  with  regret. 
It  is  all  I  was  ever  fit  for. ' ' 

"There  is  a  place  for  you,  though  you  may  not 
have  found  it,"  said  Knellwood,  as  Harry  entered 
and  fell  into  chat  with  the  ex-chaplain. 

"Sit  down,  Tom,  and  amuse  me,"  Madge  said. 
"Is  n't  your  chaplain  handsome?  I  wish  I  liked 
him  better." 

"Not  like  him!  Ah,  we  called  him  the  reverend 
colonel.  He  was  always  close  to  the  rear  of  the 
regiment  in  a  fight  ready  to  help  the  fellows  that 
were  hit,  or  to  keep  the  men  up  to  it  when  they 
got  rattled.  If  there  was  a  break  in  the  line  he 
was  sure  to  be  in  it,  and— good  gracious,  Madge,  you 
can't  imagine  how  splendid  he  looked  when  he  for- 
got that  his  business  was  peace. ' ' 

"He  is  two  men,  I  suppose." 


174  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Yes,  most  of  us  are." 

"Tell  me  more  of  him.  You  know  Harry  never 
talks  to  me  of  the  war,  and  I  like  war- talk. ' ' 

"The  chaplain  and  I  were  with  the  Forty-fifth  at 
Cedar  Creek  when  the  rebs  broke  our  line.  The 
Ninth  Vermont  lost  and  recaptured  their  colors 
three  times.  It  was  a  bloody  mob  fight,  and  what 
part  the  chaplain  took  he  does  not  like  to  hear. 
That  night,  after  Phil  Sheridan  won  his  big  fight 
and  we  had  had  our  turn,  some  one  chaffed  the  chap- 
lain, and  declared  he  swore  and  was  in  the  thick  of 
that  fight  for  the  colors." 

"Swore — and  did  he  really?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  hardly  think  he  could  even 
have  remembered  what  he  said  or  did.  Certainly  he 
was  in  the  fight,  and  repented  so  painfully  that  we 
never  spoke  of  it  again. ' ' 

"I  think  I  shall  like  him  better,"  said  Madge. 
"Those  were  horrible  and  splendid  days." 

"And  are  over,  alas!" 

' '  Oh,  Tom,  don 't  say  that !  Ah,  here  are  Kitty  and 
Mrs.  Hunter.  Oh,  and  Mr.  Grace.  How  good  of 
you  to  come  early.  Mrs.  Hunter,  may  I  present  Mr. 
Masters?  Ah,  I  forgot;  you  know  him."  Kitty 
looked  about  her,  uneasily  conscious  of  the  pearls, 
and  joined  Harry,  who  by  and  by  left  her  with 
Knellwood,  and,  a  little  curious,  went  to  sit  with 
Tom  Masters  and  the  new  secretary. 

Mrs.  Hunter,  dressed  in  black  satin  and  lace,  was 
at  her  best. 

"A  striking  looking,  well-preserved  woman," 
thought  Harry.  He  was,  like  most  of  us,  unobser- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  175 

vant  of  the  features  of  his  kind.  Now  he  was 
more  watchful.  No,  there  was  no  rouge,  and  the 
peculiarity  of  the  eye  was  that  the  whole  of  the 
large,  dark  iris  was  visible,  and  not,  as  is  common, 
partly  hidden  by  the  lids.  It  was  strange  and  not 
quite  pleasant.  She  dropped  the  gay  talk  about 
Newport  and  people,  and  said: 

"Miss  Morrow  tells  me  you  have  been  absent, 
Mr.  Swanwick,  arguing  cases.  You  are  greatly  to 
be  envied." 

"You  would  not  envy  me  if  you  had  had  to  live 
two  weeks  in  the  hotels  of  West  Virginia.  Hog  and 
hominy  and  soda-raised,  sour  bread,  sour  women, 
and  sour  children." 

"Ah,  but  to  have  your  training  and  work,  and  to 
\/  see  results.  If  a  woman  is  ever  so  able,  what  is 
there  she  can  do?  She  can't  even  kill  things,  Mr. 
Masters." 

"Well,  she  can  always  get  married,"  said  Tom, 
lightly. 

"Can  she,  indeed?"  she  cried,  laughing.  "And 
you,  Mr.  Masters,  who  were  complaining  to  me  that 
life  had  left  you  only  ducks,  grouse,  and  tarpon, 
why  not  try  your  own  remedy?" 

"Thank  you.    Not  I.    What  physician  does  that ?" 

"If  I  were  a  man  I  should  go  mad  over  Miss 
Morrow.  How  winning  she  is!" 

Tom  looked  at  the  damsel  in  question,  as  perhaps 
he  was  meant  to  do.  The  shot  had  gone  home.  Lu- 
cretia  had  inexplicable  satisfaction  in  stinging  peo- 
ple and  how  hard  he  had  been  hit  by  Kitty 's  rejection 
Mrs.  Hunter  guessed.  Tom  said,  quietly : 


176  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Miss  Morrow  would  trouble  the  prayers  of  a 
saint."  In  a  far  corner,  she  was  just  then  engaged 
in  this  very  same  business  and  was  reporting  to 
Mr.  Knellwood  the  contents  of  a  letter  from  a  friend 
who  had  married  a  clergyman  and  was  settled  near 
Lenox. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Knellwood" — it  was  no  longer 
Father  Knellwood — "she  says  she  is  so  glad  to  be 
both  useful  and  happy,  and  I  am  happy  and  not  a 
bit  useful,  except  to  uncle.  Helen  got  her  account 
of  her  roses  and  her  babies  so  mixed  up.  Do  you 
ever  get  mixed  up  ?  I  do.  If  ever  I  marry,  it  will 
be  a  bishop.  It  is  delightful  to  talk  to  you  about 
getting  married,  because  you  know — you  know — you 
are  a  priest  and  what  Mrs.  Hunter  calls— oh,  I  for- 
get !  It  was  something  out  of  St.  Paul. ' ' 

Cyril  Knellwood  knew  that  this  child-woman  was 
silly.  He  felt,  rather  than  thought,  that  she  might 
be  insincere,  and  men  said  of  her  bitter  things ;  but  a 
vast  tenderness  welled  up  in  the  heart  of  the  man 
as  he  looked  down  at  her.  He  answered,  with  his 
usual  gentleness:  "I  cannot  think  what  verse  of 
St.  Paul  could  apply  to  me."  He  might  have 
thought  of  more  than  one. 

"I  always  do  forget  quotations,"  she  said.  "I 
will  ask  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  write  to  you."  Kitty 
was  forever  writing  trivial  notes. 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself."  She  looked  up  at 
him  with  lucid  blue  eyes. 

"How  can  you  think  it  a  trouble?  I  like  to  write 
to  you.  Mrs.  Hunter  says  it  does  so  clear  one 's  head 
to  put  one's  thoughts  on  paper."  Kitty  was  a  dan- 


CIECUMSTANCB  177 

gerous  person.  An  indefinable  lure  was  in  all  her 
ways  and  movements,  some  note  of  sweetness  in  her 
slight  lingering  over  any  tender  word.  She  had 
none  of  the  chaste  remoteness  of  her  cousin  Mary. 
She  always  seemed  near.  Margaret  once  said,  with 
unusual  savagery  of  criticism,  that  there  was  too 
much  physical  charm  about  Kitty.  The  man  felt  it 
as  his  look  turned  from  the  blue  eyes.  She  leaned 
toward  him  as  she  spoke  of  liking  to  write  to  him, 
and  added:  ''But  I  do  not  like  to  write  to  every- 
body, Mr.  Knell  wood."  Then  he  said  a  strange 
thing  for  him,  and  was  instantly  sorry  to  have  done 
it:  "Miss  Morrow,  why  do  you  no  longer  call  me 
Father?" 

The  girl's  eyes  fell.  This  beautiful,  half -trained 
animal  was  feeling  the  fatal  power  that  lay  for  her 
in  the  stalwart  man  beside  her,  in  a  physical  being 
as  attractive  in  his  way  as  she  herself,  and  she  was 
troubled  into  unusual  embarrassment  of  speech. 

He  had  asked  why  she  no  longer  called  him  Father. 
Her  head  fell  a  little,  as  with  slow  affirmative  move- 
ment she  murmured,  slowly  and  distinctly:  "Be- 
cause I  cannot.  I  cannot  any — any  more." 

Her  meaning  was  plain.  There  were  a  dozen 
things  he  might  have  said.  He  knew  very  well  next 
day  what  he  should  have  said,  but  for  the  moment 
Ms  moral  mechanisms  were  in  confusion,  and  his 
mind  refused  to  assist  him.  He  had  been  fool- 
ish, wrong,  impulsive.  That  was  the  first  thought 
which  leaped  to  consciousness  out  of  the  vertigo  of  a 
passion  on  the  boundary  of  uncontrol.  He  rose  ab- 
ruptly. As  he  looked  down  at  her,  the  girl's  face, 
12 


178  CIRCUMSTANCE 

a  moment  before  bent,  regarded  his  set  gaze.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  said:  "Do  not  go." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  quietly  moved  away.  She 
looked  after  him. 

' '  He  will  never  come  near  me  again,  never. ' '  She 
made  a  desperate  effort  to  recover  her  self-command. 
She  saw  the  forms  about  her  as  if  in  a  dream.  She 
heard  voices,  but  knew  not  what  was  said.  In  a 
moment  she  began  to  try  to  think  of  what  had  passed. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  man  had  troubled 
her,  and,  she  knew,  might  trouble  her  again.  Or 
had  she  troubled  herself?  Yes,  she  had  gone  far, 
and  perhaps  too  soon.  Was  this  man  really  unlike 
other  men?  for  Kitty  regarded  his  well-known  ad- 
vocacy of  celibacy  as  slie  did  the  rest  of  what  Mary 
called  his  performances— lavations,  chasuble  and 
amice,  the  wafer  and  genuflections.  In  her  mind, 
beliefs  and  their  ceremonial  attendants  were  of  equal 
importance.  Her  own  creed  was  the  offspring  of 
habit  and  education  and  could  hardly  be  said  to 
affect  conduct.  Margaret  had  once  remarked  that 
Kitty's  religion  was  thin.  She  shrank  back  into  her 
corner,  and  for  a  time  was  alone. 

Mrs.  Swanwick  had  urged  Archer  to  bring  Blount 
to  one  of  her  Saturdays,  promising  that  she  would 
take  care  of  him.  Archer,  rather  in  doubt,  had  con- 
sented. In  their  previous  intercourse  Mrs.  Swan- 
wick's  tact  and  evident  interest  had  quickly  set 
Blount  at  ease.  She  had  been  full  of  useful  sym- 
pathy and  had  begun  to  make  him  feel  that  intellect 
and  hard  work  obtain  their  triumphs  more  easily 
when  aided  by  qualities  which  Blount 's  life  and  edu- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  179 

cation  had  never  taught  him  to  value.  He  was,  how- 
ever, by  nature  an  observer,  and  once  assured  of  a 
need  was  almost  absurdly  ready  to  imitate  the  ways 
of  these  pleasant  people.  The  process  of  assimila- 
tion interested  Margaret. 

The  young  man  had  been  somewhat  unwilling  to 
face  what  he  feared  might  be  a  large  number  of  peo- 
ple, but  Archer,  without  more  thought,  had  said: 

"Nonsense !  Put  on  a  white  tie  and  a  black  coat. ' ' 
Mrs.  Swanwick,  too,  was  not  to  be  lightly  disobeyed. 
There  would  be  two  or  three  pleasant  people.  The 
rest  she  did  not  speak  of. 

Blount  entered  the  room  in  a  white  tie,  which  gave 
evidence  of  having  been  with  difficulty  adjusted,  a 
black  cutaway  coat,  and  gray  pantaloons.  Dazed 
for  a  moment  and  shy,  he  looked  about  him  with  a 
sense  of  shock  at  the  bare  necks  and  arms,  for  three 
or  four  women,  having  dined  elsewhere,  were  in  full 
evening  dress. 

Seeing  Blount  enter,  Mrs.  Swanwick  came  for- 
ward, and,  after  a  moment  of  reassuring  welcome, 
looked  about  her.  Observing  that  Knellwood  had 
left  Kitty,  she  said,  "This  way,  Mr.  Blount,"  and 
presented  him  to  her  cousin. 

The  young  woman,  still  vexed  and  disturbed, 
was  glad  of  the  company  of  a  stranger,  and  said, 
as  he  sat  down :  "I  think  we  met  at  Miss  Mark- 
ham 's."  Talking  disjointedly  of  nothings,  she  kept 
thinking  of  what  she  had  said  to  Knellwood,  and 
why  he  had  asked  her  a  question  so  strangely  unlike 
the  man  to  ask.  Herself  a  creature  of  impulse,  she 
was  far  from  seeing  that  he,  too,  had  been  for  the 


180  CIRCUMSTANCE 

moment  the  prey  of  an  impulse.  At  length  she  began 
to  find  in  the  abruptness  of  his  retreat  an  evidence 
of  what  she  most  desired  to  believe.  Until  her  van- 
ity had  found  for  her  this  little  crumb  of  comfort, 
Miss  Kitty's  talk  had  been  more  than  usually  vapid 
and  disconnected ;  but  now,  with  her  habitual  readi- 
ness, she  recovered  from  the  shock  of  self-discovery. 
Something  Blount  said  amused  her.  She  turned  to 
him  with  the  satisfaction  such  women  find  in  the 
last  male  creature. 

She  soon  put  him  at  ease,  and  he,  in  turn,  began 
to  exercise  his  normal  powers  of  observation  and  to 
ask  questions  not  always  easy  to  answer.  When  at 
last  she  missed  Knellwood  from  the  room,  and  knew 
that  he  had  gone,  she  drew  from  this  further  en- 
couragement and  gave  her  whole  attention  to  Blount. 
He  said:  "I  must  be  pestering  you  with  questions." 
Kitty  said  she  liked  it.  He  had  asked,  as  Knell- 
wood  went  by  them :  ' '  Who  is  that  ? ' '  She  told  him. 

"I  don't  see  why  a  preacher  dresses  like  that  and 
wears  a  big  cross.  It  looks  like  an  advertisement, 
as  much  as  to  say,  'Look  at  me.  I  am  an  up-and- 
down  righteous  man.'  ' 

"Oh,  you  must  not  say  such  things,  Mr.  Blount. 
It  is  the  sign  of  his — his  high  calling." 

"But  other  people  have  high  callings." 

"But  not  like  his." 

.  /      "Do  you  think,  miss,  people's  dress  should  always 
in  some  way  represent  their  business  in  life?" 

"A  clergyman's  should." 

* '  I  don 't  see  why.  And  the  women, ' '  said  Blount, 
"and  the  doctors?" 


CIRCUMSTANCE  181 

This  bothered  Kitty. 

"I  do  not  quite  understand." 

,    "I  was  thinking  Sydney  Archer  is  quite  as  much 
V  a  man  of  God  as  that  big  preacher. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  hardly !     Of  course,  he  is  a  very  nice  man. ' ' 

"I  should  n't  describe  him  that  way,  miss.  Who 
is  the  lady  in  the  corner  ? ' ' 

"Mrs.  Hunter,  a  friend  of  mine.  Is  she  not  beau- 
tiful?" 

"No.  She  is  n't  beautiful.  I  saw  her  once.  I 
was  trying  to  think  where  it  was — in  some  hotel. 
She  don't  ever  have  her  mouth  quite  shut— like  a 
rabbit,  you  know."  It  was  true. 

Kitty  laughed. 

"You  are  too  critical.     I  shall  suffer  next." 

"You,  miss!  Why,  any  one  would  say  you  were 
beautiful." 

"Good  gracious!"  cried  Kitty,  and  they  went  on, 
the  woman  amused  and  not  ill  pleased,  the  man  at 
his  ease. 

Presently  Archer  took  an  unoccupied  seat  beside 
Mrs.  Hunter,  and  an  old  admiral  whom  she  had 
been  delighting  rose. 

At  this  moment  Mary  Fairthorne  entered  the  room 

and  looked  about  her.     Seeing  Kitty,  who  was  not 

aware  of  her  return,  she  went  over  to  speak  to  her. 

As  she  approached,  Kitty  drew  a  light  scarf  over  the 

white  neck,  but  not  quite  in  time.     Mary  saw  her 

mother's  pearls,  and,  seeing,  grew  pale,  as  was  her 

/   way  when  one  of  her  rare  storms  of  anger  was  rising. 

*      She  said,  with  distinct  articulation:  "Good  evening, 

Katherine, ' '  and  swept  by. 


182  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Now,  that  's  a  right  splendid  creature,"  said 
Blount.  "She  looks  like  a  Greek  goddess." 

"Oh,  she  is  well  enough;  she  is  my  cousin,  Mary 
Fairthorne.  I  think  she  is  too  tall.  Mrs.  Hunter 
says  she  ought  to  live  out  of  doors;  she  is  too  big 
for  a  house. ' '  Kitty  was  frightened  and  cross,  fore- 
seeing a  scene  with  Mary. 

That  lady,  compelling  herself  to  a  state  of  calm, 
spoke  to  Mrs.  Hunter  as  Archer  rose  at  her  ap- 
proach. She  was  still  a  little  paler  than  common. 
Mrs.  Hunter  hoped  she  was  quite  well  again,  and 
Mary,  thanking  her,  asked  Archer  how  her  uncle 
was.  She  observed  that  he  spoke  with  some  caution, 
saying  that  Mr.  Fairthorne  was  much  as  usual. 

Mrs.  Hunter  said:  "Of  course,  you  know  best,  but 
he  seems  to  me  better.  I  shall  be  glad  to  resign  my 
place  as  nurse.  To  be  Mr.  Fairthorne 's  secretary 
is  quite  work  enough." 

Margaret  had  refrained  from  writing  of  this  pro- 
motion to  her  sister,  not  desiring  to  trouble  her  while 
absent. 

"Secretary!"  exclaimed  Mary,  surprised  out  of 
her  usual  calm. 

"Yes;  Mr.  Fairthorne  thought  his  nieces  were 
V  quite  overworked,  and  I  need  not  say  how  very  glad 
I  am  to  assist  him  and  you." 

"Indeed!"  said  Mary,  glancing  at  Archer,  who 
said  nothing.  "I  cannot  say  I  have  felt  over- 
worked. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  Katherine!"  Mrs.  Hunter  knew  she 
was  worrying  the  tall  girl,  and  liked  the  sport. 

Mary  made  neither  reply  nor  comment,  but,  turn- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  183 

ing  to  Archer,  said  quietly:  "Harry  seems  to  have 
had  a  brilliant  success.  He  thinks  he  may  soon 
have  to  return  to  Virginia,  unless  Mr.  Pilgrim  can 
very  soon  go  down  and  take  charge  of  the  coal- 
mines. ' ' 

Martin  Blount,  who  was  but  a  short  distance 
away,  in  talk  with  Mrs.  Swanwick,  said  suddenly : 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Hunter?  She  is 
going  to  faint."  It  was  true.  She  was  white,  and 
had  fallen  back  in  her  seat. 

"Oh,  are  you  ill?"  said  Margaret.  "What  can  I 
do  for  you?" 

Mrs.  Hunter  replied,  with  evident  effort:  "No;  I 
was— I  am  a  little  faint— a  glass  of  water,  please." 

Margaret  fanned  her,  the  water  was  brought,  and 
in  a  moment  she  was  herself,  and  laughingly  apolo- 
getic. Archer  led  her  into  the  back  room,  which  was 
cooler.  There,  at  a  window  opened  for  the  min- 
ute, she  said:  "I  am  subject  to  this  annoyance  at 
times.  I  am  apt  to  suffer  in  close  rooms."  Then 
she  asked  him  to  find  her  a  carriage.  As  his  own 
was  at  the  door,  he  put  her  in  it,  and,  promising  to 
excuse  her  to  Miss  Morrow,  returned  to  the  front 
room  to  reassure  and  chat  with  Miss  Kitty. 

He  found  her  less  agreeable  than  usual.  She 
was  thinking  of  Knellwood,  and,  too,  was  disturbed 
as  she  caught  her  cousin's  eye  upon  her.  Kitty 
rarely  controlled  her  moods,  and  now  she  made  Syd- 
ney Archer  uncomfortable,  saying  how  much  better 
Mrs.  Hunter  cared  for  her  uncle  than  Mary  had 
ever  done,  and  how  good  a  thing  it  would  be  if  that 
lady  could  be  induced  to  come  and  live  with  them. 


184  CIECUMSTANCE 

Of  late  Mrs.  Hunter  had  more  and  more  interfered 
with  him  and  now  he  rather  unwisely  lost  his  tem- 
per, and  said:  "Miss  Katherine,  I  do  not  agree  with 
you.  Mrs.  Hunter  seems  to  think  that  her  place  as 
secretary  gives  her  the  privilege  to  meddle  with  Mr. 
Fairthorne's  treatment.  I  think  her  most  meddle- 
some." 

"I  do  not  like  to  have  my  friend  abused,"  said 
Kitty. 

"What  I  say  to  you  I  shall  say  to  her.  It  has 
become  necessary  to  speak  positively.  I  am  sorry 
if  it  annoys  you." 

"Then  you  had  better  not  have  said  it." 

"But,"  he  returned,  "how  can  I  possibly  fail  to 
speak  as  I  do  ?  Miss  Mary  is  away ;  Mrs.  Swanwick 
is  not  available;  and  I  naturally  turn  to  you  for 
support  against  influences  that  are  plainly  hurtful. ' ' 

"I  really  know  nothing  about  it,  and  if  I  did  I 
should  leave  you  and  Mrs.  Hunter  to  settle  your 
own  quarrels."  Miss  Kitty,  still  cross  because  of 
a  deep  humiliation,  was  half-consciously  revenging 
herself  by  rudeness  where  rudeness  was  stingingly 
felt. 

Archer  made  no  reply,  but  looked  at  her  in  mute 
amazement.  This  Kitty  was  new  to  him.  She  rose 
as  she  last  spoke.  When  Margaret  declared,  as  Mas- 
ters had  done,  that  Kitty  was  sometimes  a  little 
common,  she  was  correct.  For  the  time  Sydney 
Archer  was  a  disenchanted  man.  He,  too,  made  no 
comment,  and  was  relieved  when  Swanwick  came  up, 
saying :  ' '  There  is  a  little  supper  in  the  back  room. ' ' 

Soon  after  the  guests  went  away,  and  Kitty  bade 


CIRCUMSTANCE  185 

a  hurried  good-bye,  eager  to  escape  her  cousin.  But 
at  this  moment  she  heard  Mary  behind  her. 

' '  Come  up  to  the  library,  Katherine. ' ' 

"No.  I  must  go  home.  It  is  late."  They  were 
now  in  the  hall. 

"You  must  come  if  I  have  to  carry  you." 

Kitty  whimpered:  "I  knew  you  would  be  angry, 
but  Mrs.  Hunter  said  you  would  be  glad  to  have  me 
wear  them."  Mary  made  no  reply.  When  they 
were  in  the  library  alone,  she  closed  the  door  and 
said: 

"Give  me  that  necklace." 

Kitty  obeyed,  saying:  "I  would  never  treat  you 
so." 

"Kitty,"  said  her  cousin,  "you  have  hurt  me 
more  than  I  can  say.  Never  do  it  again.  I  have 
never  yet  been  able  to  wear  my  mother's  pearls." 

"Oh,  I  know.  But  then  I  might.  I  don't  see 
why  you  are  so — so  particular  about  your  pearls, 
Mary.  You  might  wear  anything  I  own.  Mrs. 
Hunter  said — " 

Then  Mary  lost  her  temper. 

"Mrs.  Hunter  is  a  servant  of  my  uncle.  I  do 
not  permit  her  to  meddle  with  me.  I  shall  say 
to  her  what  I  think  of  her  and  of  this  piece  of  in- 
solence. ' ' 

"Oh,  Mary,  please  not.  She  will  be  so  angry  with 
me." 

"Do  you  think  that  is  of  the  slightest  moment  to 
me?  My  uncle  will  have  to  choose  if  this  sort  of 
thing  continues ;  and  as  for  you,  never,  never  again 
let  this  woman  come  between  us.  Remember!" 


186  CIRCUMSTANCE 

She  set  her  hands  on  Kitty's  white  shoulders,  and 
repeated :  ' '  Remember ! ' ' 

"You  hurt  me.     You  are  rude." 

"Rude!  You  are  unbearable.  A  little  while  ago 
you  insulted  me  about  that  letter.  Now  you  wrong 
and  hurt  me  and  have  not  even  enough  decent  senti- 
ment to  understand  why  I  am  angry." 

"What  is  the  matter,  girls?"  said  Margaret,  as  she 
stood  at  the  door. 

"Mary  has  pinched  me,"  said  Kitty. 

This  queer  statement  and  the  drop  from  what  to 
Mary  was  serious  seemed  to  her  so  comical  that  she 
laughed,  as  she  said :  ' '  Kitty  has  been  wearing  my 
mother's  pearls  by  the  sage  advice  of  Mrs.  Hunter, 
and  I  have  been  angry.  Go  home,  Kitty;  I  am 
sorry  I  said  so  much." 

"I  will  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"Yes,  you  will,"  said  Margaret.  "You  were 
wrong.  There,  now,  don't  say  any  more.  Good- 
bye," and  Kitty  went  away. 

Then  Mary  said:  "It  is  intolerable,  Madge,  per- 
fectly intolerable !  That  woman !  I  told  Harry  she 
was  dangerous.  I  am  going  to  bed.  Good  night. 
Do  not  tell  Harry,  Madge.  I  shall  if  I  stay  up. ' ' 

"No,  it  is  not  worth  while." 

"Plumbers  or  no  plumbers,"  said  Mary,  "I  shall 
go  home  to-morrow. ' ' 

"I  would,"  said  her  sister;  "but  we  shall  be  sorry 
to  lose  you." 

When  Harry  joined  her  a  few  minutes  later,  and 
sat  down  for  his  pipe,  he  said : 

"Madge,  that  queer  Dick  Sydney  Archer  brought 


CIRCUMSTANCE  187 

here  amused  me.  You  told  me  before  I  left  that 
Archer  had  asked  you  to  take  an  interest  in  him, 
but  I  have  been  so  long  away  that  I  have  lost  touch 
of  you  and  your  menagerie.  What  about  this  new 
animal?  We  had  a  few  words  together.  You  had 
better  take  his  costume  in  hand." 

She  laughed.  "All  in  good  time.  That  will 
come. ' '  Then  she  told  how  Archer  had  asked  her  to 
help  the  young  man.  "He  really  is  worth  it, 
Harry.  Imagine  the  son  of  an  old-fashioned  An- 
dover  professor  thrown  at  ten  on  the  mercy  of  rough 
farming  people,  and  left  to  grow  up  a  mere  farm- 
hand. He  somehow  scraped  together  enough  to  give 
him  two  years  at  Amherst.  Then  he  kept  hotel 
books  two  summers,  and  did  lumber  work  in  winter. 
Archer  will  tell  you  the  rest.  Mr.  Grace  is  helping 
him  through  his  medical  course,  and  our  dear  white 
mice,  at  Archer's  request,  are  lodging  him.  It  is 
easy  to  see  how  rough  he  is  and  how  entirely  with- 
out social  training,  but  Clementina  says  he  is 
thoughtfully  kind  and  considerate.  I  told  you  that 
he  comes  of  good  stock. ' ' 

"Yes,  you  did.  I  often  wonder  how  much  of  us 
is  breed  and  how  much  training.  And  so  you  are 
to  be  the  lapidary  of  this  rough  diamond?" 

"I  am — Archer  and  I." 

"And  how  do  you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  the  man  has  a  talent  for  taking  hints.  You 
need  not  laugh.  I  am  not  hinting  at  any  one's 
failure  to  possess  that  talent." 

"How  does  his  talent  show?     It  is  a  good  sign." 

"Well,   the   nail   question.     I   merely  mentioned 


188  CIRCUMSTANCE 

that  Sydney  Archer  had  well-made  hands,  and  that  I 
thought  a  doctor  should  be  careful  of  them.  Mr. 
Blount's  fingers  have  been  immaculate  ever  since." 

' '  I  see, ' '  he  said.     ' '  You  are  a  delightful  woman. ' ' 

"Am  I  not?"  she  laughed. 

"Let  me  see  the  embryo  doctor.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  help  you." 

"I  knew  you  would." 


XIX 


Kitty  met  Mrs.  Hunter  next  morn- 
ing she  said: 

"Dear  Lucretia,  you  look  as  if  you 
had  seen  a  ghost." 

"I  have,  dear—  in  my  sleep.  Some- 
thing disagreed  with  me  last  evening.  '  '  It  was  true 
in  a  way.  Conscious  of  defeat  as  imminent,  she  had 
lain  awake  busily  weaving  schemes  of  self-defense. 
At  last  she  sat  up  in  the  darkness  and  said,  aloud, 
"Yes,  that  will  do,"  and  fell  into  a  restless  sleep. 

When,  in  the  morning,  she  entered  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne's  library,  he  said:  "You  are  late." 

"Yes,  I  am  not  very  well.  A  small  matter.  Here 
is  your  medicine,  but  I  do  not  think  I  would  take 
it;  you  are  looking  so  well  to-day."  He  was 
pleased  to  escape,  and  said  so.  She  had  urged  that 
this  constant  dosing  only  served  to  make  him  be- 
lieve that  he  was  ill,  to  keep  his  mind  on  himself. 

"Shall  I  open  the  letters?"  She  was  careful  to 
ask  leave.  She  ran  over  them  and  read  their  con- 
tents aloud.  "Ah,  here  is  a  man  who  writes  that  he 
has  some  letters  of  your  grandfather's." 

He  sat  up,  interested.  '  '  The  man  in  South  Street  ? 
I  wish  you  would  see  him,  and  find  out  what  they 
are  about." 


J 


190  CIRCUMSTANCE 

She  said  she  would.     ' '  And  these  bills  ? ' ' 
"Well,  pay  them."     As  he  spoke  she  slipped  an 
unopened  letter  into  her  pocket. 
"What  was  that?"  he  asked. 
"A  letter  for  me,  sir,  to  your  care." 
She  went  through  the  work  of  cataloguing  with 
her  usual  skill  and  accuracy,  and  then,  glad  to  es- 
cape, left  earlier  than  usual— to  see  about  the  auto- 
graphs, as  she  said. 

When  she  was  in  the  street  she  opened  the  letter 
she  had  purloined.  She  had  instantly  recognized 
the  writing  on  the  envelope.  It  ran  thus: 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  At  last  I  am  free  to  visit  those  mines.  I  shall 
be  in  Philadelphia  in  four  days. 

"Yours  truly, 

"  LUKE  PILGRIM." 

She  reread  it,  looked  long  at  the  large,  bold  signa- 
ture, slowly  replaced  the  note,  and  walked  on. 

"How  long  will  he  be  here?  I  must  go  away  for 
a  while.  It  is  getting  tangled.  What  a  lot  of  things 
turn  up !  Why  out  of  fifty  million  of  men  should 
this  one  man  cross  my  path?  Let  me  think.  Ah, 
my  handwriting!  It  is  horribly  peculiar.  No  one 
can  escape  from  that.  He  is  not  likely  to  see  my 
memoranda  on  the  autograph  covers.  And  Kitty 
wanted  my  photograph.  Not  I,  indeed!  And  he 
never  saw  Lionel." 

She  thought  it  all  over,  and,  in  fact,  nothing  es- 
caped her.  The  same  ability  honestly  used  would 
have  given  her  success  in  any  one  of  half  a  dozen 
less  hazardous  pursuits,  but,  like  some  thieves,  she 


CIKCUMSTANCE  191 

enjoyed  the  risk  of  the  game  in  which  she  was 
engaged. 

She  walked  slowly,  and  at  last,  smiling,  moved 
faster,  as  she  said  to  herself:  "I  shall  know  from 
Kitty  when  he  goes  and  of  his  return.  And,  after  all, 
how  the  old  man  will  miss  me!  It  will  be  lively  in 
that  house.  Ah,  well!" 

She  went  on  toward  South  Street,  pleased  at  her 
own  cleverness  and  courageous  as  always.  She  soon 
found  the  little  bric-a-brac  shop  and  entered.  It 
contained  a  dusty  litter  of  cracked  china,  ragged 
books,  and  rusty,  valueless  arms.  A  pock-marked 
little  crippled  man  on  crutches  came  forward.  Mrs. 
Hunter  would  like  to  see  the  letters  of  George  Bene- 
dict Fairthorne.  She  came  at  Mr.  Fairthorne 's  re- 
quest. 

"Here  they  are,"  he  said,  placing  a  soiled  port- 
folio before  her.  "I  don't  guarantee  autographs. 
I  buy  and  I  sell,  but  I  don't  ask  questions  and  I 
don't  answer  none." 

Mrs.  Hunter  took  from  her  pocket  a  magnifying- 
lens  and  began  to  study  the  script.  The  few  weeks 
in  Fairthorne 's  library  had  not  been  wasted.  She 
closed  the  portfolio.  "How  much  do  you  want  for 
the  lot?  There  are  thirty-seven  letters." 

"Two  hundred  dollars,  if  Mr.  Fairthorne  takes 
all." 

"I  offer  you  one  hundred." 

He  said,  "No,"  and  she  promptly  rose  and  left 
him.  At  the  next  corner  he  overtook  her. 

' '  One  fifty, ' '  said  he. 

"No." 


192  CIRCUMSTANCE 

''Oh,  then,  one  hundred." 

"Send  them  to  Mr.  Fairthorne  for  examination. 
He  will  decide.  You  know  the  address." 

As  she  moved  away  she  thought  how  easy  to  make 
that  other  hundred. 

"He  would  give  two  hundred  if  I  were  to  advise 
it.  Yet,  there  is  a  better  way,"  and  she  laughed 
aloud.  "The  letters  are  forged.  But  I  must  have 
money.  Lionel  is  outrageous.  It  is  too  bad."  She 
simply  could  not  refuse  anything  to  this  idle,  worth- 
less young  fellow. 

That  day,  after  luncheon,  Mary  appeared,  and  de- 
spite the  pervasive  plumber  settled  herself  in  her 
own  rooms.  Well  as  she  knew  Kitty,  it  was  a  sur- 
prise to  her  when  that  young  woman  threw  herself 
into  her  arms,  saying: 

"You  were  so  unkind!  but  I  forgive  you,  dearest 
Mary.  Don't  think  for  a  moment  that  I  don't  for- 
give you." 

Mary,  vastly  amused,  kissed  her,  and  the  affair  of 
the  pearls  was  at  an  end,  for  Kitty  at  least.  Whether 
or  not  she  should  speak  of  it  to  Mrs.  Hunter,  Mary 
did  not  then  decide.  She  went  down-stairs  to  her 
uncle 's  library,  and,  coming  in,  found  him  very  full 
of  excitement  over  the  letters  of  her  ancestor.  She 
was  equally  interested.  He  hardly  noticed  her  kiss, 
and  said :  ' '  They  run  over  many  years,  Mary.  Here 
is  one  about  the  Stamp  Act.  The  last  is  in  1780. 
Where  did  the  man  get  them?  They  are  addressed 
to  several  people.  What  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter? How  much  was  it  he  asked?" 

"One  hundred.     But  they  are  forgeries.     There 


CIRCUMSTANCE  193 

are  traces  of  the  pencil  alongside  of  some  of  the  let- 
ters. See,  sir?" 

He  said,  peevishly:  "My  eyes  are  too  old." 

Mary,  using  a  lens,  saw  that  the  secretary  was 
right.  He  did  not  want  to  be  convinced,  and  argued 
the  matter  until  Lucretia  said : 

"Your  grandfather  dropped  the  name  of  Benedict 
after  Arnold's  treason." 

"He  did,"  said  Mary. 

"I  stopped  at  the  library  to  look  up  the  dates  in 
Sargent's  'Life  of  Andre.'  The  signature  of  Bene- 
dict is  missing  in  these  letters  a  year  too  early." 

"By  George!  That  is  clever,"  said  Fairthorne, 
and  Mary  began,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  to  ap- 
preciate justly  the  secretary's  ability.  She  was  too 
honest  not  to  say  what  she  thought,  and  after  a  little 
more  discussion  of  water-marks  and  what  not  went 
back  to  her  room. 

Mrs.  Hunter  closed  the  door  and  said :  ' '  Here,  sir, 
is  a  letter,  come  by  the  noon  mail."  She  read  aloud 
Luke  Pilgrim's  note.  The  old  man  was  delighted 
that  Lucretia  should  know  Pilgrim. 

"An  unusual  man;  an  able  engineer;  odd  sort  of 
talker;  believes  in  this  country."  He  ran  on,  gar- 
rulous, at  times  saying  shrewdly  cynical  things  and 
then  other  things  of  no  moment.  She  waited,  seem- 
ing to  hang  on  every  word.  When  he  ceased,  she 
said :  "  I  should  like  to  see  him,  but  I  must  lose  this 
pleasure  for  the  time.  I  have  to  go  to  New  York 
in  a  day  or  two  on  a  little  business." 

' '  You  must  not, ' '  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  ' '  You 
won't  leave  me." 

13 


194  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  have  to  go.  It  is  only  for  a  few  days.  You 
will  write  to  me  when  I  am  gone,  and  you  will  have 
Mary  and  Kitty." 

"But  they  are  not  you.  You  will  have  to  come 
and  live  here." 

"Oh,  no!  That  is  out  of  the  question.  Miss 
Mary  does  not  like  me.  That  would  never  do." 

"Then  she  will  have  to  like  you,  or  I  will  know 
why." 

"Don't  urge  it,  sir.  Some  day,  perhaps ;  and  now 
I  must  go."  She  kissed  his  hand,  and  saying, 
"Don't  worry,"  went  away. 

He  rose  and  rang  angrily. 

"Send  Miss  Mary  here."     She  came  at  once. 

"What  is  it,  uncle?" 

"I  have  seen  that  you  are  making  it  unpleasant 
for  Lucretia." 

"Lucretia!" 

"Damn  it!  I  said  Lucretia.  She  has  filled  the 
place  you  and  Kitty  ought  to  fill.  I  am  a  forsaken 
old  man.  Do  you  hear  me?  And  don't  tap  that 
way  with  your  foot.  I  mean  to  be  master  in  my  own 
house  and  I  want  you  to  remember  that  I  can  alter 
my  will  at  any  minute." 

This  was  so  unlike  him  that  for  a  moment  Mary 
was  dumb. 

"Why  the  devil  don't  you  say  something !" 

She  made  no  reply.  Usually,  despite  his  unstable 
temper,  he  was  pretty  sure  to  be  sobered  by  her 
silent  endurance  and  to  apologize  when  he  had  gone 
too  far.  She  did  not  fully  realize  how  rapidly  he 
was  undergoing  degenerative  changes,  nor  how  ably 


CIRCUMSTANCE  195 

a  scheming  woman  had  fed  his  vanity  and  by  degrees 
maliciously  made  trouble  for  his  niece.  At  last  she 
spoke,  looking  down  on  him  from  her  height  in 
grief  and  scorn:  "You  have  not  been  neglected. 
That  woman  is  an  unprincipled  intriguer.  What 
she  wants  I  neither  know  nor  care.  As  to  your 
money,  sir,  do  as  you  will  with  it.  But  if  this  goes 
on,  and  you  talk  to  me  as  unjustly  again,  I  will  go 
and  live  with  my  sister." 

' '  Oh,  Mary ! "  he  said,  of  a  sudden  alarmed,  ' '  you 
would  not  do  that.  I — Mrs.  Hunter — " 

"Mrs.  Hunter  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  uncle. 
It  is  between  you  and  me  alone.  I  love  you, — I  have 
always  honored  and  loved  you, — but  this  kind  of  in- 
justice I  cannot  and  will  not  endure." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we  won't  talk  about  it  any 
more. ' '  He  was  terribly  afraid  that  she  would  leave 
him,  and,  being  a  very  conventional  person,  dreaded 
the  gossip  and  the  scandal  such  a  desertion  would 
cause,  and  what  Harry  and,  above  all,  Margaret 
would  say. 

"You  won't  desert  me.  Mrs.  Hunter  is  going 
away.  Oh,  only  for  a  week." 

' '  Indeed !  I  think  you  were  very  cruel,  but  I  will 
say  no  more,"  and,  still  angry,  she  determined  that 
now  she  should  have  to  speak  of  the  pearls  to  Mrs. 
Hunter,  and  would  under  no  circumstances  execute 
her  threat  of  leaving.  As  she  went  to  her  room 
again,  she  murmured: 

' '  Lucretia !  Lucretia,  indeed !  Does  she  call  him 
John  ? ' ' 

She  had  said  very  little  to  Kitty  about  her  horse, 


196  CIRCUMSTANCE 

but  even  had  not  the  mare  been  lame,  it  was  late 
to  ride,  and  she  missed  the  relief  which  physical 
exercise  brings  to  aid  the  cause  of  the  lesser  morals. 
She  needed  some  mode  of  relief,  for  she  felt,  as  she 
went  slowly  up-stairs,  that  anger  costs  too  much  and 
brings  with  it  a  painful  sense  of  having  failed  in 
self-control.  She  sat  down  and  wrote  in  her  diary : 

"To  be  angry  leaves  me  feeling  as  if  I  had  been  ill,  and  then, 
too,  I  have  the  humiliation  of  having  fallen  in  my  own  esteem. 
I  must  tell  uncle  I  am  sorry.  No,  I  did  say  so,  and  before  I 
was  honestly  sorry,  but  he  was  then  afraid  I  would  go  away. 
If  again  I  excuse  myself  he  will  turn  on  me  and  we  shall  have 
another  scene.  It  is  hard  to  do  right.  Finally,  I  must  not  de- 
sert him.  As  for  his  money,  I  told  him  the  truth,  but  Madge 
would  not  agree  with  me. 

"And  so  Harry  says  Luke  Pilgrim  is  coming.  I  hope  he  will 
not  bother  me  again.  Once  it  seemed  possible,  but  when  I  knew, 
when  he  told  me  his  life— oh,  then  it  would  have  been  too  hor- 
rible for  me.  Now,  it  is  over  and  done  with,  and  there  are 
things  I  cannot  discuss,  even  on  paper  " 

"Or,"  she  might  have  added,  "with  Mary  Fair- 
thorne." 


XX 


|EVERAL  things  of  interest  happened 
in  the  week  of  Mrs.  Hunter's  absence. 
How  long  would  be  her  stay  she  did 
not  know,  and  she  left  her  brother  with 
doubt  in  her  mind,  since  he  had  quite 
suddenly  declared  that  he  could  endure  Miss  Letitia 
Markham's  rules  no  longer,  and  had  taken  a  small 
room  next  to  his  sister's  at  the  hotel  where  Mrs. 
Hunter  was  living.  It  was  his  first  signal  of  open 
rebellion,  and  was  the  more  ungrateful  because  she 
had  introduced  him  to  Miss  Morrow  one  morning 
after  church,  and  Kitty  had  evidently  been  pleased 
with  his  good  looks  and  his  too  open  way  of  express- 
ing his  admiration.  Mary,  who  was  practically  the 
only  dutiful  guard  over  Kitty,  was  vexed  when  the 
young  man  called  next  day.  He  was  told  that  Miss 
Katherine  was  in.  Mary,  with  various  motives  in  her 
mind,  went  down-stairs  and  said  to  Mr.  Craig :  ' '  The 
servant  made  a  mistake.  Miss  Morrow  is  out. ' '  She 
did  not  ask  him  to  sit  down,  and  herself  stood  silent, 
noting  his  slightly  Oriental  type  and  expecting  him 
to  go  at  once. 

He  was,  however,  a  little  confused  and  discon- 
certed by  the  quiet  of  the  tall  girl  who  stood  looking 
197 


198  CIRCUMSTANCE 

down  to  him.  He  said:  ''My  sister  was  so  good  as 
to  introduce  me  to  Miss  Katherine. ' ' 

"Miss  Morrow,"  corrected  Mary. 

He  was  too  inapprehensive  to  accept  the  reproof. 
His  sister,  who  had  been  convent-bred,  had  studi- 
ously acquired  the  forms  of  ordinary  manners,  but 
had  been  sadly  defeated  by  his  impatience  in  her 
effort  to  polish  Lionel.  He  said:  "Yes,  Miss  Kath- 
erine Morrow.  I  am  sorry  she  is  n't  in,  but  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you." 

"She  is  seldom  at  home,"  said  Mary;  "and,  par- 
don me,  I  hear  Mr.  Fairthorne's  bell."  It  seemed 
to  her  during  Mrs.  Hunter's  absence  to  ring  all  day. 
Then  he  said :  "  I  hope  you  will  say  I  called. ' '  Mary 
replied  that  she  would  do  so,  and  he  went  away. 
When  she  remonstrated  with  Kitty,  that  young  per- 
son said,  with  truth : 

"No;  all  I  know  is  that  he  is  Lucre tia's  brother. 
I  could  not  help  his  being  introduced  to  me."  As 
to  asking  him  to  call,  how  did  Mary  know  that  ?  and 
she  wished  that  people  would  mind  their  own 
business. 

Mr.  Fairthorne  wrote  daily  to  the  secretary,  be- 
wailing her  absence  more  and  more.  He  wrote,  too, 
that  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  been  to  West  Virginia,  and 
had  returned  to  report  and  consult.  He  would  go 
again  in  a  week,  and  would  this  time  be  absent  in 
Virginia  for  a  month. 

Mrs.  Hunter  wrote  him  clever  and  entertaining 
letters  about  autographs  and  the  books  in  the  Lenox 
Library.  He  read  parts  of  them  to  Mary,  and  wished 
every  one  were  as  thoughtful. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  199 

Mrs.  Hunter,  careful  about  all  things,  had  left  for 
New  York  two  days  before  Pilgrim  turned  up  at  the 
Swan  wicks',  where  he  usually  stayed  while  in  their 
city.  They  had  long  been  his  friends.  He  arrived 
to  find  them  all  out. 

As  it  was  too  late  to  see  Mr.  Fairthorne,  who 
napped  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  called  on  the  Misses 
Markham,  in  whose  house  he  had  once  lived  for  a 
part  of  a  winter,  returning  in  time  to  dress  for  din- 
ner. As  Mr.  Grace  dined  with  them  he  had  no 
chance  of  intimate  talk  until  late  in  the  evening, 
when,  about  the  fire  in  the  library,  he  and  Mar- 
garet were  alone,  Harry  having  gone  elsewhere  with 
Grace. 

"You  may  smoke,"  she  said. 

' '  Thanks,  Mrs.  Margaret.  I  liked  your  Mr.  Grace. 
A  Pennsylvania  Yankee,  he  called  himself.  I  sus- 
pect that  I  may  have  amused  him." 

"Why  do  you  do  that  sort  of  thing?  You  are  not 
really  a  Buddhist. ' ' 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  had  a  variety  of  creeds. 
It  is  intellectually  interesting  to  put  yourself  in  an 
attitude  of  faith  as  regards  a  religion  not  your 
own." 

"I  cannot  conceive  of  that  as  possible  if  you  hon- 
estly possess  a  creed  by  which  you  live." 

"No  one  lives  by  his  creed." 

' '  No,  only  by  what  it  pledges  one  to.  I  try  to  live 
by  mine,  and  so,  I  am  sure,  does  Mr.  Grace.  You 
do  yourself  injustice." 

"No,"  he  returned ;  "you  think  of  your  religion  as 
definite.  Nothing  is  less  so.  Every  one,  as  life  goes 


200  CIRCUMSTANCE 

on,  evolves  a  religion  which  is,  at  last,  personal. 
It  is  the  man  plus  the  creed.  In  every  church  are 
thousands  of  religions. ' ' 

"You  are,  as  usual,  puzzling.  I  think  I  could 
logically  confute  you.  It  is  n't  worth  while,  but,  I 
will  add,  as  fatal,  that  I  know  what  you  will  do  or 
not  do  in  every  conceivable  human  situation.  If  you 
were  a  Buddhist  or  a  Mohammedan  I  should  not.  I 
never  know  what  you  will  say,  but  always  what  you 
will  do— oh,  that  I  know,  and  I  know  it  because  I 
am  sure  that  certain  well-defined  principles  con- 
trol you. ' ' 

"And  so  you  honestly  believe  that  you  know  me?" 

"Yes-I  do." 

"Do  you  think  I  could  ever  be  tempted  to  murder 
any  one  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  tempted— no  more.  I  do  wish  that  you 
would  not  make  a  man  like  Grace  think  you  are — " 
she  hesitated. 

"Well,  are  what?" 

"Never  mind  what.  He  was  comically  surprised 
when  you  turned  to  talk  of  mining  and  the  paleon- 
tology of  the  coal  deposits." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  surprise  him  by  any  of  my 
talk.  I  fancy  him  a  man  so  trained  to  a  regular 
conventional  business  life  that  he  may  take  too  seri- 
ously the  vagaries  of  a  man  of  another  type.  A  ter- 
ribly earnest  person,  I  should  think. ' ' 

"Yes,  he  is  that,"  said  Mrs.  Swan  wick;  "and,  too, 

he  is  a  man  who  is  learning  many  things  just  now. 

\  The  American  of  his  class  has  a  queerly  open  mind. 

^  I  Where  did  you  go  to-day  ?     You  saw  Uncle  John  ? ' ' 


CIECUMSTANCE  201 

"No,  it  was  too  late.  I  called  on  the  Markhams. 
Miss  Letitia  was  as  delightful  as  usual.  She  still 
indulges  in  a  kind  of  fiction  as  to  their  not  keeping 
a  boarding-house.  It  is  rather  pathetic.  Why 
would  I  not  come  and  stay?  Now  that  Clementina 
was  older,  having  young  men  in  the  house  was  less 
embarrassing.  I  was  flattered  by  the  classification. 
Clementina  said,  'Quite  so,  Letitia,'  but  was  slyly 
amused.  One  of  their  young  men,  Clementina  com- 
plained, was  not  at  all  a  nice  person — in  fact,  ill- 
bred.  'And  gave  us  notice,  Mr.  Pilgrim !  He  really 
gave  us  notice ! '  Letitia  thought  well  to  reprove 
him.  'We  are  glad  that  he  has  gone.'  'Yes,  we  are 
glad,  sister.'  I  assure  you  they  were  charming,  as 
they  sat  up  on  the  high  chairs  of  Peter  Markham, 
under  the  portraits,  model  little  dames,  with  legs  too 
short  to  touch  the  floor." 

"But  what  did  our  dear  Letitia  say  to  that  sad 
young  man?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot  that.  She  said,  'Mr.  Craig,  you 
are  quite  free  to  go  when  you  please.  People  do 
not  need  to  give  us  notice.'  ' 

Madge  laughed  merrily. 

"What  a  terrible  reproof!  And  then — what 
then?" 

"Clementina  said,  'He  guessed  we  would  n't  make 
any  money  if  we  ran  a  boarding-house  that  way,  and 
then  we  both  walked  out  of  the  room. '  ' 

' '  Our  dear  white  mice !  They  will  not  let  Tom 
Masters  help  them.  When  they  need  new  silk  gowns 
Tom  goes  to  Harry,  and  Harry  recovers  some  myste- 
rious debt  out  of  their  father's  wrecked  estate.  I 


202  CIRCUMSTANCE 

have  a  fancy  that  they  understand  it.  I  am  sure 
Clementina  does." 

"I  saw  their  young  man,"  said  Pilgrim.  "He 
had  forgotten  something  and  came  back  to  get  it. 
A  pretty  young  man,  and  would  look  well  in  petti- 
coats. They  have  another  young  man  besides  old 
Wilson,  who,  you  know,  has  all  the  rest  of  the  house. 
By  the  way,  he  is  going  to  leave  them." 

"Indeed,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  That  other  is  my 
young  man!"  and  she  narrated  Dr.  Archer's  strata- 
gem, and  her  education  of  Blount. 

"You  are  as  good  as  always,  Mrs.  Margaret.  How 
is  Miss  Fairthorne  ?  She,  too,  was  out. ' ' 

"Very  well,"  she  said;  "but,  like  all  of  us,  rather 
troubled  about  my  uncle.  Kitty  took  a  fancy  to  a 
Mrs.  Hunter,  whom  she  fell  in  love  with  at  Newport, 
and  now — oh,  it  is  a  long  story!  Somehow  this 
woman  has  fastened  herself  on  Uncle  John  and  has 
magnetized  Kitty." 

"Is  it  serious?"  he  asked.  "Does  it  really  dis- 
tress you?" 

"Yes,  greatly.  One  never  can  tell  what  may 
happen. ' ' 

"I  have  known  such  cases.  I  shall  be  curious  to 
see  her. ' ' 

"You  will  not  see  her.  She  is  away,  and  Uncle 
John  is  behaving  like  a  child  who  has  lost  a  nurse." 

Pilgrim  was  silent  awhile,  smoking  quietly,  before 
he  said : 

"Mrs.  Margaret,  do  you  think  time  will  have 
made  it  worth  while?"  She  knew  what  he  meant. 

"No,  I  do  not.     It  was  a  question  of  sentiment 


CIRCUMSTANCE  203 

with  Mary,  perhaps  of  what  some  people  might  call 
excess  of  sentiment.  It  could  not  have  been  a  mat- 
ter of  religious  scruple  on  her  part.  But  whatever 
I  do  or  say,  you  will  ask  again.  You  will  hurt  her 
and  yourself.  That  you  were  innocent  does  not  in 
the  least  affect  her,  and,  indeed,  I  think  she  might 
have  cared  for  you  once;  but  Mary  has  too  much 
imagination." 

"And  if— if  that  woman  were  dead?" 

' '  It  would  make  no  difference.  At  least  not  now. 
Do  you  know,  dear  old  friend,  anything  of  her  ? ' ' 

"I  do  not  for  these  last  four  or  five  years.  She 
still  draws  the  income  I  set  aside  for  her.  I  did  not 
mean  her  to  be  tempted  by  want  of  means.  Ah,  but 
this  is  an  unkind  world." 

"Yes,  and  most  unkind  to  her  best." 

"I  may  not  be  that — I  am  not  that,  I  fear;  but  I 
was  so  constructed  as  to  suffer  more  keenly  than 
many  would.  I  do  not  know  where  she  is.  I  do  not 
want  to  know.  We  are  farther  apart  than  two  who 
have  never  been  married.  I  hope  others  do  not  suf- 
fer as  I  do,  for  I  cannot  realize,  I  never  have  real- 
ized, the  completeness  of  the  divorce.  She  still  seems 
horribly  to  belong  to  me,  to  be  mine." 

"But  surely,  dear  friend,  you  do  not  love  her." 

"Love  her!  I  hate  her  as  I  hate  no  other  thing 
on  earth.  It  is  some  devilish  combination  of  hate 
and  loathing.  I  asked  you  if  you  thought  I  could 
ever  murder —  " 

Madge  looked  up  at  the  stern  face. 

"Do  you  understand?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  understand." 


204  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"What  she  did  was  worse  than  that.  She  mur- 
*  dered  life,  hope,  and  the  innocent  chance  of  love 
unborn." 

Madge  glanced  at  him  again,  oppressed  to  silence 
by  her  vast  pity  over  this  lifelong  calamity.  She 
thought  sadly  of  the  folly  which,  in  his  green  youth, 
had  cursed  his  life.  She  knew  very  little  of  this 
marriage,  only  the  bare  facts.  He  was  a  reticent 
man,  and  to  her  alone  had  ever  confessed  himself. 
,/  But  a  man  will  say  to  a  woman  friend  what  he  will 
never  say  to  a  man,  and  the  outer  world  knew  little 
of  the  life  of  the  eminent  engineer.  They  were  both 
silent  awhile,  and  then  she  said :  "I  do  wish  I  could 
help  you." 

"No  one  can  help  me.  I  am  a  little  child  crying 
for  the  moon." 

"And  if  it  be  the  moon,  you  cannot  get  it,  and  so 
would  it  not  be  wise— a  little— to  forget?" 

"Ah,  that  is  the  curse  of  life,  to  be  unable  to 
forget.  Perhaps  that  will  be  the  best  gift  of  the 
other  world." 

Pleased  to  turn  the  talk  aside,  she  said:  "I  am 
very  materialistic  in  my  hopes  of  that  other  world. 
I  want  Harry  and  Jack  and  the  baby,  and  I  cannot 
dream  a  better  world  than  ours  if  I  could  leave  out 
of  it  a  few  minor  discomforts— a  few." 

"I  sometimes  think  it  rather  stupidly  con- 
structed," he  said. 

"Well,"  she  returned,  "my  uncle  is  much  of  your 
opinion.  He  says  that,  considering  the  ingenuity  of 
nature  and  her  unlimited  resources,  she  seems  to 
have  blundered  a  good  deal. ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  205 

"Perhaps.  When  as  a  youngster  I  was  thrashed, 
it  appeared  to  me  outrageously  stupid,  a  very  com- 
plete blunder." 

"My  sister  answered  uncle  by  quoting,  'Imperfec- 
tion is  the  noblest  gift  of  God.'  " 

"How  like  her  that  was!"  he  said.  "Ah,  here  is 
Harry." 


XXI 

[HE  days  ran  on  in  the  home  of  John 
Fairthorne  very  quietly,  save  for  the 
uncertain  temper  of  the  master,  who 
querulously  complained  of  Mrs.  Hun- 
tex's  absence.  Mr.  Luke  Pilgrim  was 
there  daily.  He  had  plans  to  discuss  with  Fair- 
thorne, on  whom  such  matters  acted  as  a  tonic.  The 
legal  questions  connected  with  the  settlement  of 
boundaries  involved  also  consultations  with  Swan- 
wick,  and  thus  it  was  that  a  fortnight  passed  and 
they  were  well  on  into  December  before  Pilgrim  was 
able  to  return  to  West  Virginia. 

During  this  period,  as  Mr.  Fairthorne  was  kept 
excited  and  more  or  less  busy,  the  house  lost  the 
uneasiness  which  in  some  ways  even  the  servants  had 
felt  so  long  as  Mrs.  Hunter's  rule  prevailed.  Where 
Mary  Fairthorne  governed  there  was  patience  and  a 
certain  sweet  serenity.  Things  went  along  tran- 
quilly and  the  domestic  machinery  worked  smoothly, 
as  the  best  machines  should  do. 

Kitty  was  devotional  and  attended  evensong,  and 

sometimes,  by  chance,  was  met  by  Mr.  Craig  after 

the  services.    But,  except  that  he  was  a  man,  he  did 

not  please  her  as  did  most  new  male  acquaintances, 

206 


CIRCUMSTANCE  207 

and  this  she  herself  recognized  and  put  down  to  all 
causes  but  the  one  which  was  giving  rise  to  the  near- 
est approach  to  an  honest  heart-stir  her  life  had  as 
yet  felt.  When,  again,  this  irrepressible  young 
woman  sent  notes  asking  to  consult  Mr.  Knellwood 
he  did  not  reply  in  person,  but  wrote  rather  short 
answers.  When  she  begged  that  he  would  again 
allow  her  to  confess  to  him,  he  wrote  curtly  that  it 
was  impossible. 

The  retiarius  was  tangled  in  his  own  net.  Kitty 
became  pale,  and  went  less  and  less  to  dinners  and 
balls,  longing  for  Mrs.  Hunter's  return. 

But  even  after  she  knew  that  the  engineer  had 
gone,  Lucretia  lingered  in  New  York.  Soon,  how- 
ever, the  excitement  of  business  being  over,  Mr. 
Fairthorne  began  to  insist  on  her  return.  Then  she 
wrote  that  she  had  an  offer  to  assist  in  the  manage- 
ment of  a  school  in  the  West,  at  a  salary  so  large 
that  it  seemed  folly  to  decline.  Nothing  but  her  rec- 
ognition of  the  advantages  of  constant  contact  with 
a  mind  like  that  of  Mr.  Fairthorne  made  her  hesi- 
tate. He  groaned  a  little,  but  replied  at  once  by 
offering  her  twenty-five  dollars  a  month  in  addition 
to  her  present  salary.  Lucretia  wrote  him  a  note  of 
thanks,  and  the  next  day  took  the  afternoon  train  to 
Philadelphia. 

It  was  one  of  Fairthorne 's  evil  days.  Archer 
had  insisted  that  he  must  not  drive.  When  Mary 
said  that  in  this  case  she  would  use  the  carriage, 
he  said : 

' '  No ;  it  must  go  to  the  station  for  Mrs.  Hunter. ' ' 

Mary,  learning  thus  for  the  first  time  of  her  com- 


208  CIRCUMSTANCE 

ing,  flushed  a  little,  and  said  she  could  do  her  er- 
rands afoot. 

For  a  while  this  December,  Mrs.  Hunter,  being 
in  a  good  humor  and  seeing  all  Mr.  Pilgrim's  let- 
ters, was  at  ease  and,  for  her,  amiably  disposed. 
Except  that  her  brother  had  again  been  taken  se- 
verely to  task,  she  would  have  felt  that  the  world 
was  at  last  treating  her  well.  When,  however,  he 
confessed,  a  few  days  later,  that  Mr.  Grace  had  told 
him  that  in  a  month  he  must  leave,  she  was  in  de- 
spair. He  bewailed  in  a  childlike  way  his  sad  fate 
as  she  caressed  him  and  sat  thinking  what  she  should 
do.  Kitty  had  not  been  captured,  as  she  had  fool- 
ishly hoped.  That  rather  wild  idea  she  had  at  last 
deliberately  given  up.  It  was  plain  that  Knellwood 
not  being  attainable,  Kitty  was  again  playing  with 
Archer.  Her  she  could  manage,  but  what  about 
Lionel?  Then  she  remembered. 

Next  day  she  turned  from  reading  the  morning 
paper  to  Mr.  Fairthorne  and  said:  "May  I  take  a 
great  liberty,  sir  ? " 

When  he  said :  ' '  You  never  take  liberties,  but  you 
sometimes  say  damned  queer  things.  What  is  it?" 
she  went  on  to  tell  him  that  a  friend  in  New  York 
had  asked  her  if  the  Republic  Trust  Company  were 
in  sound  condition.  Fairthorne  was  too  little  his 
old  shrewd  self  to  see  the  absurdity  of  Mrs.  Hunter's 
being  thus  consulted. 

"I  saw,"  she  went  on,  "in  your  property  schedule 
that  you  hold  a  large  amount  of  the  stock. ' ' 

He  at  once  was  alarmed.  "Mr.  Masters  asked  my 
advice  about  it  some  time  ago.  After  that  I  forgot 
it.  I  forget  everything  nowadays.  Thank  you." 


CIECUMSTANCE  209 

"May  I  be  permitted  to  suggest  that  you  consult 
Mr.  Grace  about  it?  He  would,  I  am  sure,  come 
here  if  you  wrote  to  ask  him." 

When  he  said  Harry  Swanwick  could  see  Mr. 
Grace,  she  urged  that  he  would  not  be  as  competent, 
and  so,  the  letter  being  written,  the  banker,  rather 
pleased  to  be  consulted,  came  next  day.  He  had 
meant  to  call  about  this  very  matter. 

Mr.  Fairthorne  said  nothing  of  his  secretary,  and 
simply  put  his  question  as  to  the  stock.  Grace  re- 
plied that  it  had  been  badly  managed,  but  was  now, 
he  learned,  doing  better  and  being  better  taken  care 
of.  Then  he  said  that  the  finances  of  the  country 
were  in  a  critical  state,  and  that  he  himself  held  a 
large  amount  of  this  stock.  It  was  now  down  to  par. 
If  he  or  any  one  were  to  throw  on  the  market  a  large 
block  of  the  stock  it  might  cause  a  serious  fall,  a 
run  on  the  deposits,  and  possibly  bring  about  a 
failure.  He  assured  Mr.  Fairthorne  that  on  the 
whole  he  himself  had  decided  not  to  sell,  but  he  did 
not  so  advise  Mr.  Fairthorne.  He  thought  he  must 
judge  for  himself. 

The  old  man  hesitated  a  little,  and  when  Grace 
saw  this  he  said  at  once : 

"If  you  determine  to  sell,  I  will  take  the  whole 
of  your  stock  at  par.  So  large  a  sale,  if  made  in  the 
usual  way  and  reported,  would  be  calamitous.  I 
should  prefer  to  accept  your  stock,  as  I  have  said, 
even  at  a  loss." 

Fairthorne,  who  had  no  very  good  opinion  of  any 
one  who  dealt  in  money,  became  at  once  suspicious 
of  an  attempt  to  get  the  better  of  him,  and  replied 
with  his  old-fashioned  manner  that  he  was  greatly 

u 


210  CIRCUMSTANCE 

obliged,  but  would  hold  his  stock  and  hoped  it  would 
rise  to  what  he  had  paid  for  it. 

Grace,  satisfied,  rose,  when  Fairthorne  said : 

''By  the  way,  you  have  my  secretary's  brother, 
Craig,  in  your  office.  I  hear  that  he  has  not  done 
well,  and  that  you  have  told  him  to  leave." 

Grace  smiled. 

"Why,  yes,  Mr.  Fairthorne.  He  is  really  quite 
worthless.  He  is  careless  and  lazy,  and  frequents 
billiard-rooms  and  is  seen  with  people  who  are 
known  to  be  disreputable.  I  try  to  know  about  my 
clerks. ' ' 

"That  is  all  very  bad,"  said  Fairthorne;  "but 
may  I  ask,  as  a  favor,  that  you  will  give  him  another 
trial?" 

Grace,  rather  pleased  to  oblige  John  Fairthorne, 
said: 

"Oh,  certainly;  it  is  a  small  matter.  He  shall 
have  his  chance." 

Fairthorne  rose  with  his  guest,  saying: 

"Come  in  again  when  we  have  no  business.  My 
nephew-in-law  told  me  they  had  declined  to  send  you 
the  Assembly  book.  I  will  speak  of  it  to  Masters 
and  Win  wood." 

Grace  flushed  a  little  at  being  thus  patronized, 
and  at  the  disclosure  of  his  social  ambitions. 

"It  is  of  no  moment,  sir.  I  beg  that  you  will  not 
trouble  yourself." 

When  he  had  gone,  Fairthorne  said:  "What  the 
devil  does  that  dollar-grubber  want  with  society? 
These  people  ought  to  be  kept  in  their  places." 

Mrs.    Hunter,    well    pleased,    thanked    him ;    and 


CIRCUMSTANCE  211 

Lionel,  thoroughly  scared  at  these  revelations  and 
his  own  danger,  for  a  time  kept  better  hours  and 
was  altogether  more  attentive.  Roger  Grace,  partly 
from  kindness  and  partly  because  he  was  gratified 
to  oblige  Mrs.  Swanwick's  uncle,  had  done  a  thing 
which,  although  seemingly  of  no  moment,  was  to 
entail  consequences  of  the  gravest  nature.  He 
brought  about  a  battle  between  character  and  cir- 
cumstance, of  which  we  shall  learn  more. 


XXII 

'ELIEVED  for  a  time  by  Mrs.  Hunter's 
renewed  services  and  by  her  rather  too 
watchful  amiability,  Mary  Fairthorne 
began  to  notice  Kitty's  paleness  and 
want  of  gaiety.  At  the  same  time  she 
saw  that  Dr.  Archer  was  apt  to  be  left  by  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter to  give  his  daily  orders  to  Kitty,  who  was  always 
near  at  hand  upon  these  occasions.  Why  she  was 
lamenting  the  loss  of  one  man  and  using  her  chances 
to  make  another  unhappy  it  would  have  puzzled 
even  Kitty  to  say,  and  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  of 
her  longing  affection  for  Knellwood  her  cousin  knew 
nothing.  She  was  worried  about  Kitty,  and  trou- 
bled through  all  her  nature  with  something  akin  to 
dismay  by  her  own  self-revealments ;  for  this  woman 
was  too  honest  to  escape  self-confession. 

Very  little  was  made  of  Christmas  in  John  Fair- 
thorne's  house,  and  it  slipped  away,  as  usual, 
quietly. 

On  the  15th  of  January  Mary  wrote : 

"DEAR  MADGE:  I  will  call  for  the  children  to-day,  unless 
Mrs.  Hunter  takes  the  carriage,  which  is  rare  of  a  morning. 
But  in  any  event  you  must  have  me  to  dinner.  I  cannot 
stand  Lucretia  every  third  day.  I  am  not  in  good  enough 
spirits  to  keep  up  with  her  clever  talk,  and  Kitty  is  as  melan- 
212 


CIRCUMSTANCE  213 

choly  as  an  autumn  day,  and  what  for  I  do  not  know.  She  used 
to  tell  me  always.  Now  I  presume  her  confidante  to  be  Mrs. 
H.,  and,  dear  Madge,  I  love  Kitty.  You  insist  that  your  af- 
fections are  always  reasonable— mine  are  not.  No  matter,  I 
shall  dine  with  you." 

When  Mary  arrived,  a  little  before  dinner,  her 
sister  said  that  Harry  had  wished  her  to  be  told 
they  would  have  two  dull  men  to  dine.  When  Mary 
knew  them  to  be  Grace  and  Martin  Blount,  she  said : 
"Ah,  this  is  your  social  kindergarten.  How  glad  I 
am  that  I  came!" 

People  as  unusual  as  Grace  interested  Mary,  and 
Archer's  account  of  young  Blount 's  energy  and  in- 
dustrious persistency  pleased  a  woman  appreciative 
of  all  forms  of  honest  human  effort. 

"Dr.  Archer  insists,"  said  Madge,  "that  I  am 
really  helping  the  young  man  when  I  give  a  tired 
fellow  the  chance  of  an  hour's  talk.  I  like  him,  but, 
my  dear,  he  is  terribly  direct.  After  he  had  taken 
and  used  practically  a  hint  or  two  as  to  nails  and 
soiled  cuffs,  he  blurted  out,  'Dr.  Archer  said  it  was 
an  education  to  know  you';  that  is  me,  dear — or  I 
should  say  I ;  and  he  went  on  to  say  that  now  he  knew 
what  his  friend  wanted,  would  I  not  just  as  leave 
say,  '  You  must  not  do  this, '  and  '  You  must  do  that, ' 
ending  with  'I  won't  mind.  I  '11  like  it.'  " 

"Rather  startling,  that,"  said  Mary. 

"I  meant  to  have  had  you  here  alone  to-day  with 
Mr.  Blount,  but  Harry  wrote  me  he  had  asked  Mr. 
Grace.  As  to  my  young  man,  well,  he  does  n't  eat 
with  his  knife  now,  but  he  does  say  queer  things, 
and  he  is  what  the  doctor  calls  a  natural  observer. 


214  CIRCUMSTANCE 

I  call  that  a  very  dangerous  animal.  As  to  Mr. 
Grace,  I  think  of  turning  him  over  to  Kitty. ' ' 

" Don't,  dear;  she  is  out  of  tune,  and  just  now 
she  is-" 

"What?" 

"Oh,  no  matter." 

"Is  it  Sydney  Archer  again?  He  is  too  good  to 
be  hawked  at  by  Kitty.  She  is  neither  true  woman 
nor  true  lady;  and  as  for  the  man,  don't  you  know, 
dear,  the  old  posy — 

"There  is  always  a  fool 

In  the  court  of  King  Cupid, 
And  sometimes  he  is  clever, 
And  sometimes  is  stupid." 

"That  is  quite  too  true.  But  why  this  common 
malady  should  so  cloud  men's  wits  has  always  puz- 
zled me.  I  might  love  a  man  to  distraction,  but  I  do 
not  think  I  should  cease  to  reason." 

Madge  smiled. 

"Amor  furor  brevis  est." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  use  Latin  quotations  to 
me.  As  for  Dr.  Archer,  he  will  never  marry  Kit. 
I  am  sure  of  that." 

* '  Well, ' '  said  Madge,  ' '  we  have  only  a  friendly  in- 
terest, but  I  wish  he  were  not  such  a  fool.  It  lowers 
one's  opinion  of  a  man  to  see  him  caught  by  such  a 
girl  as  Kitty." 

"I  do  not  think  him  a  fool,  but  after  all —  Oh, 
here  is  Harry." 

A  moment  later  she  rose,  as  Grace  and  Blount 
entered.  Archer  had  insisted  that  the  young  man 


CIKCUMSTANCE  215 

should  have  a  dress-suit,  and  how  it  was  managed, 
against  Martin's  inbred  views  on  economy,  neither 
revealed.  As  he  entered,  Mary  saw  that  this  test 
was  well  stood.  The  strong,  rugged  face  looked  its 
best  in  the  clothes  to  which  fashion  has  so  change- 
lessly  adhered. 

Mary,  very  happy  to  be  out  of  the  forced  gaiety 
of  Mrs.  Hunter's  society,  enjoyed  the  evident  plea- 
sure which  the  two  male  guests  found  in  the  little 
dinner-party. 

Grace,  a  man  of  large  views  and  national  inter- 
ests, was  anything  but  dull.  He  talked  well,  and 
the  chat  dealt  not  too  heavily  with  the  strike  on  the 
railways  of  the  year  before  and  on  party  questions. 
Blount  was  silent,  but  listened,  and  noticed  auto- 
matically what  went  on.  He  began  to  appreciate 
the  skill  with  which  his  hosts  kept  the  talk  going 
even  when  to  his  mind  a  good  deal  of  it  seemed  silly. 
The  gay  folly  of  well-mannered  chat  was  almost  as 
fresh  to  the  banker  as  to  Blount.  The  latter  began, 
as  was  his  way,  to  try  to  analyze  it.  How  did  they 
do  it?  And,  above  all,  the  goddess,  Mary  Fair- 
thorne ! 

During  an  unlucky  pause  in  the  talk,  Blount  said : 

"You  have  dropped  some  gravy  on  your  shirt- 
front,  Mr.  Grace." 

Mary  said,  quickly : 

"I  know  a  man  who  gets  his  whole  menu  there 
when  he  dines. ' ' 

"What  is  a  menu?"  said  Martin. 

"What  you  eat  and  what  you  do  not,"  laughed 
Harry.  And  while  the  banker,  a  trifle  disconcerted, 


216  CIRCUMSTANCE 

repaired  as  much  as  was  possible  of  the  mishap,  Mar- 
garet said: 

"I  saw  you  well  splashed  in  the  park  last  week, 
Mr.  Grace.  You  are  hardy  to  face  this  weather." 

"Oh,  I  must  ride  daily.  I  learned  to  ride  after 
I  was  thirty,  and  I  am  too  timid  to  break  the  habit. 
I  should  lose  it  altogether. ' ' 

"I  ride  at  least  thrice  a  week,"  said  Mary,  "but 
always  on  the  Neck-roads,  as  you  know.  You  must 
ride  with  me  some  day. ' ' 

"Yes,  with  pleasure." 

"Why  are  you  too  timid  to  break  a  habit  of  rid- 
ing ? ' '  asked  Blount. 

"I  mean  I  am  afraid  of  horses,  Mr.  Blount. 
Are  n  't  you  ever  afraid  of  something  ?  No ;  I  ought 
to  say,  have  you  any  real  fears  ?  We  all  have  some 
unconquerable  terror.  What  different  people  dread 
is  interesting. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Blount,  grimly;  "I  am  afraid  of 
being  hungry.  I  mean  really  half  starved." 

Mary  knew  at  once  that  this  was  autobiographic, 
and  said : 

"I  trust  you  run  no  risk  just  now." 

"That  is  so,  miss,"  he  returned,  while  the  banker, 
too  keenly  curious,  asked : 

"But  were  you  ever  half  starved?  Some  people 
dread  a  repetition  of  an  experience,  and  some  fear 
what  they  have  never  known." 

Blount  looked  grim  enough  as  he  replied : 

"Yes,  I  was  once  about  half  starved  for  a  year." 

Mary  longed  to  ask  him  how  this  chanced,  but 
Madge,  a  little  fearful  of  some  too  frank  autobiog- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  217 

raphy,  promptly  invited  her  husband  to  confess  his 
special  terror. 

Harry,  laughing,  assured  her  that  his  utmost  fear 
was  lest  he  should  forget  a  dinner  engagement  and 
arrive  with  the  fruit.  To  Blount,  who  was  reflect- 
ing on  a  past  of  meager  diet,  this  appeared  trivial. 

"And  you,  Mary?"  asked  Margaret. 

"I  am  most  afraid  of— I  decline  to  say  of  what. 
You  may  guess. ' ' 

"Of  illness?" 

"No;  of  pain.     That  I  do  fear." 

"You  don't  look  like  realizing  it,"  said  Blount, 
who  had  carefully  partaken  of  his  first  champagne, 
and  felt  the  effect  more  than  he  liked  the  taste. 

Then  Grace  said:  "I  once  asked  a  man  this  same 
question,  and  he  replied,  'I  am  afraid  of  myself.'  ' 

Madge  wondered  a  moment  at  the  gravity  of  his 
tones,  but  Mary  knew  instantly  that  it  was  Grace 
who  had  asked,  and  he  who  had  answered. 

"What  can  such  a  man  fear  in  himself?"  she 
thought.  The  serious,  clean-shaven  face  gave  to  her 
glance  no  explanatory  comment,  as  Harry  cried, 
gaily : 

"I,  too,  am  afraid  of  myself — that  is,  of  my  better 
half,"  and  the  talk  again  becoming  too  gay  for 
Blount  to  follow,  he  retired  into  his  own  mind  to 
guess  at  what  Mr.  Grace  could  have  meant. 

Then,  as  chances  at  a  dinner,  the  chat  ceased  to  be 
general.  Harry  and  Mary  talked  horses.  Blount 
listened,  watched  every  one  in  turn,  was  at  last 
brought  into  the  horse  talk,  and  finally,  he  hardly 
knew  how,  brought  to  relate  how  he  had  for  a  winter 


218  CIRCUMSTANCE 

worked  in  lumber  cainps  on  the  lakes  and  later  car- 
ried the  mail  on  skates  over  the  lake  to  Mackinaw. 
His  description  of  the  moonlit  solitude  of  the  great 
lake  and  of  his  swift  flight  on  ringing  skates  over 
the  ice,  driven  by  a  wild  norther,  was  attractively 
given.  He  had  the  gift  of  words.  While  the  others 
listened,  Mrs.  Swanwick  and  Mr.  Grace  talked  in 
lower  tones  of  the  large  national  questions  which  she 
liked  to  discuss.  Grace,  like  her  husband,  was  a 
steady  Republican.  She  was  as  distinctly  a  Demo- 
crat, and  was  now  having  what  she  dearly  loved,  a 
grave  argument.  At  last  she  said : 

"I  can  stand  in  men  anything  but  indifference  to 
these  great  questions.  Mr.  Knellwood  thinks  that  a 
clergyman  should  keep  out  of  politics  altogether. 
When  I  told  him  it  was  wicked  and  a  neglect  of 
/  manifest  duty,  he  replied  that  the  Master  of  us  all, 
the  Christ,  never  meddled  with  politics." 

"Did  he  say  that?  Were  you  not  tempted  to  ask 
if  there  were  any  such  things  as  politics  in  a  modern 
sense  in  Roman  Judea?" 

"No;  it  did  not  occur  to  me." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

' '  I  said  that  there  was  no  more  sure  way  to  injure 
religion  than  to  take  a  too  narrow,  a  text-cramped, 
view  of  what  Christ  taught." 

"  'Text-cramped'  I  like,"  said  Grace.  "But  no 
one  will  move  that  man.  He  is  anchored  and  makes 
no  voyages ;  and  yet,  for  all  that,  what  a  great,  big, 
good  fellow  he  is!  Between  fasting  and  close  liv- 
ing, that  he  may  give  to  others  what  he  ought  to 
spend  in  feeding  his  bigness,  I  really  think  he  half 


CIRCUMSTANCE  219 

starves  himself.  He  is  the  most  amazing  beggar  I 
ever  knew.  I  simply  get  out  a  check-book  and  say, 
'How  much?'  Then  he  says  I  am  wrong  to  give 
without  knowing  why.  I  say  again,  'How  much?' 
and  he  takes  it  and  goes  away." 

"Yes,  I  can  see  him,  with  that  pathetic  smile. 
Even  my  uncle  gives  him  money,  and  he  is  apt  to 
hesitate.  Now  and  then  he  comes  to  dine  with  us, 
and,  to  speak  mildly,  enjoys  it." 

"No  wonder,"  said  Grace.  "I  should  like  you  to 
take  me  as  what  they  call  a  '  mealer '  in  Maine.  I  am 
at  the  mercy  of  my  cook,  or  cooks,  and  usually  I  am 
driven  to  dine  at  my  club,  which  I  hate.  The  fact 
is,  my  servants  have  not  enough  to  do  and  that  is 
fatal.  My  cook,  the  last  one,  has  aunts  and  god- 
mothers, and  I  am,  no  doubt,  robbed  famously." 

Mrs.  Swanwick  said: 

"Why  do  not  you  take  Miss  Markham's  house? 
Mr.  Wilson  has  gone  abroad.  He  had  all  of  one 
story.  They  are  in  great  need.  You  would  be  more 
comfortable  than  ever  you  were  in  your  life." 

"What,  those  two  little  ladies  you  call  the  white 
mice?  It  seems  a  reasonable  idea.  I  will  think  of 
it.  How  good  of  you  to  mention  it!" 

Mrs.  Swanwick  looked  at  her  husband  as  she  rose, 
and  the  men  went  up-stairs  to  the  library  to  smoke. 
The  women  they  left  drew  up  to  the  fire  in  the  par- 
lor, and  settled  themselves  for  a  talk  about  Jack 
and  Retta. 

"I  sent  you  word  I  could  not  come  to-day,"  said 
Mary.  "Mrs.  Hunter  had  the  horses  out.  No,  dear, 
it  is  useless  to  complain.  When  our  old  Israel  told 


220  CIRCUMSTANCE 

uncle  that  the  horses  were  being  frozen,  and  he  'just 
could  n't  stand  it  no  more,'  uncle  said,  'well,  he 
could  leave  whenever  he  liked  to  go' — and  he  has  been 
with  us  thirty  years,  dear.  The  woman  is  cruel." 

"And  how  will  it  end?"  asked  Madge,  as  she 
poked  the  fire. 

"I  do  not  know.  It  will  never  end.  I  have  sim- 
ply given  up.  Ah,  Dr.  Archer,"  and  her  face  lit 
up  as  she  rose  to  make  room. 

"There  is  a  fire,"  he  said.  "The  Grant  Hotel  is 
in  a  blaze.  That  is  Mrs.  Hunter's  hotel.  They  told 
me  the  fire  was  well  in  hand,  and  that  every  one 
got  out." 

The  matter  did  not  much  concern  them,  or  so  it 
seemed;  but,  having  named  Mrs.  Hunter,  Archer 
said: 

"I  do  not  want  her  scorched,  but  I  do  not  think 
I  can  stand  that  woman  any  longer.  I  am  never 
sure  that  what  I  order  will  be  done.  She  has  some 
queer  ideas  of  what  she  calls  mental  healing,  a  new 
Boston  fad,  I  believe." 

Mary  turned  to  him,  and  said: 

"You  must  not  desert  us.  I  beg  that  you  will 
not.  I  know  well  how  you  must  feel,  but—  I 
thought  Kitty  received  your  orders  since  I  was  set 
aside." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  Miss  Morrow  is — " 

"A  fool,"  broke  in  Margaret,  who  was  at  times 
outspoken.  "Any  one  who  trusts  body  or  soul  to 
my  cousin  will  repent  soon  or  late. ' '  She  had  meant 
to  warn  her  friend,  and  now  had  done  so.  As  soon 
as  she  spoke  she  repented,  but  not  very  deeply. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  221 

"You  are  hard  on  her,  Mrs.  Swan  wick,"  he  said. 
"She  is  young  and,  perhaps,  thoughtless.  Are  you 
not  hard  on  her?" 

"No.  She  has  no  sense  of  duty.  Kitty  is  gay, 
what  people  describe  as  artless,  and,  Sydney  Archer, 
she  is  cruel,  as  a  cat  is  cruel,  from  mere  instinct — 
artless  and  heartless.  What  I  have  just  said  I  have 
said  to  her.  It  impressed  her  for  five  minutes.  But 
I  was  talking  of  my  uncle  in  relation  to  Kitty,  and 
went  beyond  what  I  should  have  said  even  to  a 
friend  like  you." 

Mary,  who  doubted  the  absolute  honesty  of  this 
explanation,  remained  silent,  staring  in  the  fire,  a 
little  ashamed  that  she  felt  pleased.  Then  as  he,  too, 
was  silent,  Madge  said: 

"You  must  not  give  up." 

He  returned  that  he  would  not  unless  he  were 
dismissed. 

"Not  even  then;  but  that  is  out  of  the  question." 

"That  were  to  promise  too  much,"  he  replied. 
So  saying,  he  went  up  to  join  the  men.  What  Mar- 
garet had  so  bluntly  and  of  purpose  said  of  Kitty 
had  hurt  him,  and  yet  he  knew  it  to  be  true.  He 
knew,  too,  that  he  was  being  played  with,  and  that 
what  attracted  him  in  Kitty  was  the  mere  woman. 
It  was  this  as  much  as  Mrs.  Hunter's  interference 
that  furnished  a  part  of  his  unspoken  reasons  for 
really  wishing  to  give  up  her  uncle's  case. 

And  this  other  woman?  There  was  no  one  on 
earth  who  so  completely  realized  for  him  his  ideal  of 
the  true  woman. 

Could  a  man  love  two  women?     The  one  basely, 


222  CIRCUMSTANCE 

the  other  nobly?  Mary,  in  her  dignified  reserve, 
seemed  to  him  remote,  and  the  other  perilously  near. 
He  stood  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  deep  in 
thought. 

' '  There  may  be  two  fools, ' '  he  murmured ;  ' '  the 
fooler  and  the  fooled."  He  went  up  the  stairs. 

"Give  me  a  cigar,  Harry.  The  Grant  House  has 
been  on  fire." 

"No  one  hurt?"  asked  Grace. 

"No,"  and  they  fell  to  talking  politics. 


XXIII 

[BOUT  nine  o'clock  on  the  same  night 

IF  A  n^4H  JanuaiT>  Mrs.  Hunter  went  up  in 
A  IS  the  elevator  to  the  fifth  story  of  the 

K>~V\^ffi  Grant  House.  She  talked  to  the  boy  in 
the  lift,  and  spoke  a  pleasant  word  to 
the  maid  she  met  in  the  corridor.  She  was  liked  in 
the  hotel,  as  she  was  apt  to  be  by  people  who  saw  but 
little  of  her. 

She  found  the  room  unpleasantly  warm,  and  what 
she  called  "stuffy."  She  threw  up  a  sash,  cast  a 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and,  refreshed  by  the  in- 
flow of  cold  air,  sat  down.  She  liked  to  sit  in  the 
night  at  an  open  window,  and  now  looked  up  at 
the  sparkling  stars  over  the  snow-covered  roofs,  felt 
the  crisp  dry  air,  and  heard  the  murmur  of  city  life. 
The  stars  seemed  far,  the  world  of  men  and  action 
near  and  familiar.  Again  she  fell  to  day-dreaming 
of  the  life  she  desired.  These  imaginative  antici- 
pations were  becoming  more  efficient  as  supplying 
motives  than  Lucretia  knew. 

She  shut  the  window,  made  ready  for  the  night, 
and,  lying  down  at  ease  in  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers, fell  under  the  spell  of  a  clever  novelist.  But 
after  a  few  moments  she  remembered  something,  and 
rose  to  get  a  forgotten  essay  by  John  Fairthorne 


224  CIRCUMSTANCE 

on  "Colonial  Finances."  He  ceased  to  write  after 
a  historian  had  criticized  this  essay  as  wanting  in 
method  and  inexact.  Mrs.  Hunter  had  asked  leave 
to  read  it. 

"He  must  once  have  been  able,"  she  thought;  "it 
hardly  deserved  the  attack  upon  it." 

As  she  heard  her  brother  enter  his  room,  which 
adjoined  her  own,  she  half  rose,  and  then,  changing 
her  mind,  lay  down  again,  having  certain  things  to 
consider.  Success  had  given  new  hopes  of  larger 
success.  At  first  Kitty  was  to  be  a  profitable  ac- 
quaintance, an  introducer  to  opportunities.  These, 
as  they  came,  proved  to  be  of  easy  use.  She  had 
thought  of  John  Fairthorne  more  as  a  venture  than 
as  a  probably  available  investment  for  her  powers 
of  capture.  He  was  so  easily  managed  as  to  make 
her  feel  what  a  chance  his  age  and  peculiarities 
offered.  Of  course,  there  had  been  and  would  be 
obstacles. 

She  had  not  yet  come  directly  into  collision  with 
Archer.  Was  it  necessary?  No,  not  unless  he 
proved  to  be  in  her  way,  and  she  must  not  be  hasty. 
She  knew  that  without  cause  she  often  crossed  people. 
Kitty  she  controlled  absolutely,  and  twice  had  taken 
her  to  a  spiritualist  meeting,  where  she  had  been  im- 
pressed by  the  agreeable  predictions  of  a  very  ami- 
able spirit.  Mary  Fairthorne  had  remained  haughty 
and  coldly  civil,  but,  as  Lucretia  saw,  watchful.  If 
only  she  were  ill  or  could  be  worried  into  leaving  a 
clear  field !  She  played  with  the  idea  of  drugs  and 
chronic  illness,  well  aware  that  she  was  a  creature 


CIECUMSTANCE  225 

of  small  devices  without  the  courage  of  such  crime 
as  involves  dangerous  consequences. 

Meanwhile,  John  Fairthorne  was  generous,  and 
she  at  ease  except  as  concerned  Lionel  and  the  fu- 
ture. Circumstance  had  so  far  done  very  little  to 
help  her.  She  smiled,  pleased  at  what  her  skill  had 
won.  If  only  she  could  become  so  necessary  as  to  be 
more  urgently  asked  to  live  in  the  Fairthorne  house ! 
She  had  said  no,  with  some  politic  fear  of  resistance 
on  the  part  of  Mary,  who  had  by  degrees  given  up 
to  Lucretia  much  that  she  had  hitherto  considered 
duty.  Would  she  care  to  resist  a  larger  invasion? 
Mrs.  Hunter  had  no  liking  for  a  stand-up  fight. 
Well,  something  might  turn  up  to  help  her.  Again 
she  rose.  Why  was  Lionel  so  quiet?  She  opened 
the  door  between  their  rooms,  and  stood  still.  He 
was  asleep.  What  was  that?  She  stood  listening. 
Suddenly  she  heard  noises,  shouts,  cries  of  "Fire! 
Fire!" 

Quick  steps  went  by  her  room.  A  man  beat  on 
her  door,  shouting : ' '  Fire !  Fire ! ' '  She  ran  to  open 
it.  Two  rats  ran  down  the  hall.  Thin  ribbons  of 
smoke  crawled  slowly  out  of  crack  and  crevice,  mys- 
terious, gray,  and  soon  with  swift  increase.  People 
passed  by  her,  dressed,  half  dressed,  carrying  clothes. 
A  woman  dragging  a  huge  trunk  out  of  a  room 
begged  her  to  help.  One  pulled  along  two  screaming 
children.  For  an  instant  Mrs.  Hunter  did  not  credit 
the  danger.  Of  a  sudden  the  smoke  thickened  and 
swayed  to  and  fro. 

She  ran  back  into  her  room,  seized,  as  she  passed, 

15 


226  CIRCUMSTANCE 

a  purse  from  the  table  and  a  little  jewel-case,  and 
crying  wildly,  "Lionel!  Lionel!"  rushed  into  his 
room.  He  was  on  the  bed,  dressed  and  asleep. 

"My  God!  He  is  drunk.  What  shall  I  do?" 
She  shook  him,  and  at  last  pulled  him  out  of  bed,  so 
that  he  fell  heavily  to  the  floor. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  tumult  of  terror  rose,  and 
the  smoke  crawled  in  the  open  transom  and  floated 
in  gray  masses  along  the  ceiling.  Lionel  moaned : 
"What  is  it?" 

She  threw  over  his  head  the  pitcherful  of  water. 
He  sat  up,  clutching  at  her,  at  the  bed.  Half  mad- 
dened and  strong  in  her  despair,  she  shook  him 
fiercely  and  aided  him  to  stand.  He  lurched  against 
her,  crying:  "You  let  me  alone.  What  's  the 
matter?" 

She  tore  open  the  door  and  dragged  him,  reeling, 
into  the  corridor.  It  was  filled  with  curling,  dense 
smoke,  warm  and  suffocating.  She  stood  an  instant, 
appalled.  More  people  went  past ;  a  dog  whined  and 
ran  by  her.  The  first  breath  nearly  suffocated  her. 
She  saw  the  gas-jets  flaring  in  yellow  halos.  The 
smoke,  the  coughing — something — sobered  Craig.  He 
tried  to  get  away.  A  man  struck  against  them,  and 
all  three  fell.  The  man  got  up  cursing  and  fled.  For 
a  moment  Lucretia  could  neither  see  nor  speak.  She 
lay  on  her  face  gasping,  stretching  out  vain  hands 
to  find  her  brother.  Lying  thus  the  smoke  was  less 
felt.  She  crawled  about,  groping,  calling  hoarsely: 

"Lionel!  .Oh,  Lionel!"  Not  for  a  moment  did 
she  think  of  deserting  him. 

The  smoke  grew  hot.     She  was  alone.     She  stood 


CIRCUMSTANCE  227 

up  and  pitched  against  the  wall,  dazed  and  half 
blinded.  She  staggered  here  and  there,  voiceless,  still 
searching,  trying  to  call  Lionel,  the  slave  to  one  de- 
sire, lost  for  the  time  to  all  thought  of  self-preser- 
vation. An  instant  later  she  was  aware  of  the  stair- 
case, down  which  she  stumbled,  clutching  at  the  rail. 
She  tried  to  go  up  again,  but  dropped  on  her  knees. 
The  smoke  above  grew  ruddy,  the  fire,  swooping  up 
the  elevator,  flashed  in  scarlet  tongues  of  flame  over- 
head, along  the  floor  she  had  left.  And  still  she  per- 
sisted trying  to  reascend  the  stairs,  until  fragments 
of  window-curtains  fell  blazing  about  her. 

' '  He  is  dead !  He  is  dead !  My  Lionel,  my  boy ! ' ' 
she  moaned  in  a  hollow  voice,  and,  beating  out  the 
fire  on  the  burning  edge  of  her  wrapper,  she  went 
reeling,  half  choked,  down  the  stairway. 

How  she  got  to  the  floor  below  she  could  never 
have  told.  The  lower  stories  were  already  inches 
deep  in  the  water  which  was  pouring  down  the  stair- 
way. Her  feet  were  wet,  her  hands,  slightly  burned, 
were  tingling  with  pain.  She  was  coughing  and 
gasping  for  breath.  The  firemen  ran  to  and  fro. 
She  fell  over  a  great  hose,  pulsing  with  the  throb 
of  distant  engines.  A  fireman  picked  her  up  on  the 
first  floor  and  carried  her  down  to  the  flooded  hall, 
where  he  left  her  on  a  lounge.  The  water  was  drip- 
ping through  the  ceiling  in  an  irregular,  yellow,  ill- 
smelling  rain.  Most  of  the  inmates  of  the  house 
were  already  out. 

Lucretia  lay  for  a  time,  unable  to  speak  or  move. 
Then  she  sat  up  and  looked  about  her.  One  or  two 
people  were  distractedly  refusing  to  go,  and  one,  a 


228  CIRCUMSTANCE 

woman,  was  held  by  a  policeman,  whom  she  struck 
in  her  anguish,  screaming  out: 

"Joe!     Joe!     He  is  up  there !" 

A  man  ran  to  her  and  said: 

' '  I  am  Joe !     Look,  I  am  Joe. ' ' 

"No,"  she  cried,  "you  are  not  Joe,"  and  was  car- 
ried out. 

A  police  captain  came  up  to  Lucretia  as  she  sat 
moaning  and  rocking  back  and  forth. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  me  carry  you.  Every  one 
is  out." 

"No,  no;  Lionel — he  is  lost!" 

A  clerk  came  up,  loaded  with  ledgers. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Craig?  He  's  out  long  ago.  He  got 
out  among  the  first.  I  gave  him  a  drink. ' ' 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  cried,  hoarsely. 

"Why,  yes.     He  said  you  were  out,  too." 

"Take  me,"  she  said  faintly;  "a  carriage — the 
Lapierre  House.  Are  you  sure  he  is  out?" 

"Yes;  he  is  all  right." 

The  policeman  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  went  out. 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  glowing  smoke.  The  street, 
kept  free  by  ropes  and  a  line  of  police,  was  aflood 
with  slush.  The  engines  spouted  black,  spark- 
lighted  smoke.  She  saw  dimly  a  man  on  a  ladder 
overhead,  and  the  flare  of  scarlet  on  the  red-brick 
houses  and  the  icicles,  for  the  cold  was  intense.  She 
saw,  but  lay  sobbing  in  the  arms  of  the  sturdy  officer. 

"It  's  all  right,"  he  said;  "he  's  safe,  sure 
enough." 

Her  one  only  thought  for  the  time  was : 

' '  He  deserted  me.    He  left  me  to  die.    Oh,  Lionel ! ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  229 

They  went  under  the  lifted  rope  and  through  the 
crowd.  The  theaters  were  not  yet  out,  and  a  car- 
riage was  easily  found.  The  clerk  had  thrown  a 
blanket  around  her.  She  drew  it  closer,  shivering. 
Lionel  was  the  only  person  for  whom  she  ever  made 
kindly  excuses.  He  would  never  have  done  it,  she 
said,  if  he  had  been  sober.  And  he  never  was  so- 
so— like  this  before.  It  was  hardly  true,  but  she  be- 
lieved it  or  made  believe  to  do  so,  and  was  comforted. 
She  began  to  think. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  and,  leaning  out  of  the  window, 
called  to  the  driver:  "No,  not  the  Lapierre.  South 
Fourth  Street,  above  Spruce.  I  will  stop  you  at  the 
house."  She  was  still  giddy  and  coughing.  At 
John  Fairthorne's  house  she  called  out: 

"Here,  stop.  Come  back  to-morrow.  You  shall 
have  five  dollars.  Ring— ring  the  bell." 

It  was  hardly  ten  o'clock.  She  leaped  out  as  the 
hall  door  opened,  and,  running  up  the  steps,  went 
past  the  amazed  old  servant,  and,  seeing  Kitty, 
said: 

"It  is  I— Lucretia.  The  hotel  took  fire.  I  am— I 
am  burned.  I  am  cold.  There  was  not  a  bed  in 
the  hotels.  I  had  to  come  here."  Then  she  fell  on 
her  knees  and  rolled  over  on  the  floor. 

How  much  was  real  and  how  much  of  it  acted 
were  hard  to  say.  Kitty  was  useless  in  emergen- 
cies, but  the  servants,  putting  her  aside,  carried 
Mrs.  Hunter  up-stairs  and  very  soon  supplied  her 
with  warm  garments,  a  good  fire,  and,  what  most  she 
needed,  bed. 

Kitty  sat  by  her  side,  really  sorry,  and  suggesting 


230  CIRCUMSTANCE 

a  variety  of  means  of  relief  for  the  lightly  scorched 
hands.  At  last  Mrs.  Hunter,  a  strong  and  healthy 
woman,  said  hoarsely : 

"Now  go  to  bed,  dear.  I  have  lost  all  my  clothes. 
You  will  have  to  keep  me  a  day  or  two.  Get  me  a 
doctor  to-morrow.  These  hands  will  want  some- 
thing. No,  not  to-night;  and  no,  dear,  not  Dr. 
Archer.  That  nice  old  man.  Oh,  Dr.  Soper.  Lovely 
name!  And,  dear,  when  you  tell  your  uncle,  do 
make  him  understand  how  it  all  was,  and  that  I  hope 
I  did  not  disturb  him." 

"Oh,  no.     He  never  hears." 

"Good  night,  Katherine." 

When  Kitty  went  down-stairs  she  met  Mary,  who 
had  just  returned  from  her  sister's  and  was  ques- 
tioning the  servants.  She  asked  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  was  told  the  story  in  a  rather  confused 
way. 

"No  room  in  hotels?"  said  Mary,  reflectively. 

1  *  Not  one.  Was  n  't  it  terrible  ?  Was  n  't  it  awful  ? 
And  so  embarrassing  for  poor  Lucretia!" 

Mary  said  it  was,  and  went  up-stairs. 

"I  believe,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that  woman  set 
the  hotel  on  fire."  Then  she  inquired  with  care 
whether  Mrs.  Hunter  had  a  good  fire  and  blankets 
on  her  bed.  In  her  own  room  she  sat  down  in  her 
wrapper  and  wrote  in  her  diary: 

"January  30.  Mrs.  Hunter  is  burned  out  of  her  hotel  and 
into  our  house.  I  am  sure  that  she  arranged  it,  and  as  to  there 
being  no  rooms  elsewhere,  I  should  like  much  to  know  the  truth. 
The  woman  will  stay ;  of  that  I  am  sure.  If  she  does,  I  must 
have  a  talk  with  her.  Yes,  she  will  stay." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  231 

Mrs.  Hunter,  unable  to  sleep  and  in  a  good  deal 
of  pain  from  her  hands,  was  making  use  of  enforced 
wakefulness  to  reach  a  like  conclusion  as  to  per- 
manence of  stay.  She  was  in  John  Fairthorne's 
house  and  meant  to  remain.  What  she  most  wanted 
in  life  for  a  time  was  precisely  the  luxurious  ease 
of  her  present  surroundings.  How  neat  it  all  was, 
how  comfortable!  And  what  next?  Money,  in 
some  way.  She  might  end  by  marrying  the  old 
man,  but  she  knew  him  well  enough  to  doubt  if  he 
would  do  that  in  a  clandestine  way,  and  if  not  and 
she  could  persuade  him  to  an  open  marriage  there 
would  arise  difficulties — a  difficulty.  No,  that  would 
not  do.  She  knew  his  personal  self-esteem,  his  pride 
of  race. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  must  wait  and  see.  I  have 
had  a  bit  of  luck,  and  at  all  events  it  is  deliciously 
comfortable  here."  By  and  by  she  fell  into  a  sleep 
troubled  by  dreams,  in  which  she  was  trapped  by 
fire  and  saw  Lionel,  far  off,  laughing. 


XXIV 


Mrs.  Lucretia  Hunter,  with  the 
wisdom  of  her  kind,  chose  for  her 
physician  Dr.  Soper,  it  was  not  for  her 
burned  hands  alone.  They  were  pain- 
ful, but  were  not  deeply  injured.  She 
well  knew  what  Sydney  Archer  would  say  if  she 
were  to  ask  him,  "How  soon  can  I  be  moved?" 

Thomas  Soper,  M.D.,  was  also  LL.D.  of  some  re- 
mote little  Western  college  whose  president  he  had 
once  attended  when  that  official  was  taken  ill  in  the 
city.  The  doctor  was  a  childless  widower  of  ad- 
vanced middle  age,  described  by  mothers  as  a  safe 
physician  and  by  himself  as  a  man  who  kept  up  to 
the  times  but  never  tried  experiments.  Sydney 
Archer  said  he  never  did  anything  else. 

He  was  plump,  rosy,  and  lived  behind  a  perpetual 
smile.  At  limitless  ease  about  himself  and  all  the 
problems  of  the  medical  life,  he  was  a  fair  example 
of  what  an  average  mind,  the  amiability  of  selfish- 
ness, and  fairly  good  manners  may  attain  in  a  pro- 
fession where  men  who  are  not  of  great  force  fail  or 
succeed  as  they  are  judged  by  the  voice  of  the  nur- 
sery. Dr.  Soper  was  not  a  man's  doctor,  but  this 
did  not  trouble  him.  He  was  as  busy  as  he  desired 
to  be,  but  had  no  hospital  appointment  and  only  one 
232 


CIRCUMSTANCE  233 

source  of  discontent:  that,  although  of  mature  age, 
he  was  not  called  upon  for  consultations. 

When  he  sat  down  at  Mrs.  Hunter's  bedside  and 
she  said,  feebly: 

"How  good  of  you  to  come  early!"  he  returned: 

"Do  not  mention  it.  I  am  heartily  at  your  ser- 
vice. And  do  not  dwell  on  the  horrors  of  your  es- 
cape. Miss  Katherine  has  told  me.  Ah,  the  poor 
little  hands!  Bless  me,  how  small  they  are!"  He 
took  out  his  watch.  "Ah,  the  pulse  is  not  bad;  a 
little  irregular;  you  are  paying  the  cost  which  a 
sensitive  organization  exacts."  This  was  a  favorite 
and  successful  phrase.  "Might  I  see  your  tongue? 
Good !  And  your  throat  ?  A  trifle  irritated,  of 
course.  Nothing  serious ;  you  will  be  up  to-morrow. ' ' 

Lucretia  had  no  such  intention.  She  murmured, 
in  a  husky  voice : 

"I  fear  not.  My  chest  aches,  and  I  have  a  pain 
in  my  side.  Rest  is  always  my  best  remedy." 

"Certainly,  you  may  be  right.  An  intelligent 
woman's  opinion  as  to  herself  always  has  weight 
with  me — always.  I  should  say  keep  quiet,  and  in 
a  day  or  two  we  shall  see." 

"Thank  you,"  she  returned;  "it  hurts  me  to 
speak,  and  please  come  in  this  evening.  It  does 
make  one  feel  so  safe." 

He  said  he  would,  and  ordered  a  soothing  cough- 
syrup  and  a  dressing  for  the  hands.  The  latter  she 
used.  The  syrup  she  did  not.  She  had  no  belief 
in  doctors,  bad  or  good.  At  her  rare  need,  she  took 
certain  of  what  she  called  Indian  remedies,  or  credu- 
lously intrusted  herself  to  what  she  had  learned  in 


234  CIRCUMSTANCE        / 

\/ 

New  England  to  call  "mind  cure."  In  fact,  even 
about  religion  she  had  no  honest  belief,  but  cher- 
ished a  number  of  superstitions  which  she  kept  care- 
fully hidden. 

Mary  was  decently  grieved  at  the  grave  account 
Dr.  Soper  gave,  and  was  therefore  a  little  surprised 
when,  on  the  fourth  day,  Mrs.  Hunter,  reclothed,  ap- 
peared with  still  bandaged  hands  in  Mr.  Fairthorne  's 
library.  Lucretia,  despite  her  vigor,  had  suffered 
too  gravely  from  physical  and  emotional  shock  not 
to  show  it. 

Mary  rose  as  the  secretary  came  in,  gave  her  a 
chair,  and  said  something  of  her  recent  escape.  She 
was  struck,  as  she  looked  at  her,  by  the  pallor  of 
her  face  and  the  still  reddened  setting  of  her  dark 
iris.  It  added  to  the  singularity  of  her  gaze,  which 
had  the  steadiness  of  the  unwinking  eyes  of  baby- 
hood. It  meant  little,  but  some  people  disliked  it. 

Mary  had  been  busy  with  her  uncle's  morning 
mail.  When  she  expressed  civilly,  but  coldly,  her 
pleasure  at  Mrs.  Hunter's  prompt  recovery,  she  was 
graciously  thanked  in  turn.  John  Fairthorne  said : 
"I  am  glad  to  have  you  back  again."  He  spoke 
very  little  of  her  peril  and  illness,  but  was  certainly 
pleased  to  see  her,  having  missed  the  incessant  atten- 
tion, the  adroit  flattery,  the  devotional  attitude.  No 
one  else  had  ever  so  fully  risen  to  the  level  of  his 
self-appreciation,  and  Mrs.  Hunter,  unlike  Kitty, 
knew  when  to  be  demonstrative.  He  said,  with  for 
him  unusual  want  of  courtesy : 

"Now,  Mary,  you  will  have  the  freedom  you  like. 
Lucretia  will  go  over  the  rest  of  the  letters." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  235 

Mary  flushed.     She  was  hurt  and  angry. 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  about  to  say,  "No,  no,"  and  to 
excuse  herself  for  the  time,  but  the  liking  to  exert 
power  overcame  the  wiser  impulse.  She  said:  "I 
shall  be  glad  to  relieve  Miss  Fairthorne.  She  has  so 
many  outside  duties." 

Mary  walked  out  of  the  room  without  a  word.  She 
met  Kitty  on  the  stairs. 

"Is  n't  it  nice  to  have  Lucretia  well  so  soon?" 
said  Kitty. 

"Don't  speak  of  her,"  said  Mary.  "She  is  an 
underhand  sycophant.  I  should  like  to  kill  her ! ' ' 

Kitty  was  shocked  and  passed  up-stairs  speech- 
less, while  her  cousin  went  by  her.  Mary  had  meant 
to  attend  to  certain  household  duties,  but  could 
not  yet  quiet  herself  enough  to  face  the  old  black 
servants.  She  turned  into  the  dimly  lighted  draw- 
ing-room, sat  down,  put  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  V^ 
began  to  cry,  an  uncommon  thing  for  her. 

John  Fairthorne  had  been  in  the  place  of  a  father 
to  her  since  her  later  childhood.  He  had  been,  in 
his  better  days,  an  intelligent  companion,  and,  if 
not  always  kind,  in  the  past  had  been  courteous, 
if  not  considerate.  When  during  the  war  Madge 
married,  and  after  it  their  mother  died,  Mary  had 
gone  to  live  with  her  uncle.  She  was  then  a  girl  of  / 
fourteen.  He  had  managed  her  modest  estate  with 
fidelity.  That  he  was  selfish  she  knew;  that  he  ex- 
acted from  her  work  which  was  often  distasteful  was 
also  true;  but  she  owed  him  much.  As  she  said 
aloud:  "I  will  not  be  driven  out,"  Dr.  Archer  en- 
tered. She  looked  up,  and  hastily  dried  her  tears. 


236  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Oh,  Miss  Fairthorne,"  he  said,  "what  is  the 
matter?"  The  evident  trouble  in  the  face  of  this 
tall  woman,  usually  so  self-contained,  affected  him 
in  a  way  he  was  unprepared  for.  There  was  more 
of  the  child  than  the  woman  in  her  reply,  for  tears 
sometimes  make  us  very  young. 

"Ask  Kitty,"  she  said,  and  then,  "No,  no.     Go 

away,  please.     I  am  a  mere  child.     I  let  that  woman 

hurt  me.    Me !    Now  do  not  say  I  am  hysterical ;  I 

\J  won't  stand  it."     She  was  close  to  that  state  of 

unrule. 

"Miss  Mary,"  he  said,  gently,  "we  are  old  friends. 
Can  I  in  any  way  help  you?"  A  great  tenderness 
came  over  him  as  he  spoke.  He  understood  how  ele- 
mental must  be  the  passion  which  so  shook  this  whole- 
some girl.  She  was  silent,  now  doubly  wrought 
upon,  and  not  yet  in  full  command  of  herself.  He 
took  her  hand  and  said : 

"Please  not  to  cry.     You  must  not." 

She  drew  away  from  him,  trembling,  and  said : 

"I  wish  you  would  go  away." 

"I  will,"  he  said,  "if  you  wish  it." 

She  was  becoming  afraid. 

"Do  you  hear?"  she  cried,  sharply.  "Go  and 
talk  to  Kitty.  Go  anywhere." 

He  stood  still  a  moment,  a  little  hurt,  a  little  puz- 
zled, and  saying  only:  "I  most  honestly  wish  I  could 
help  you,"  left  her  alone. 

MRS.  HUNTER,  in  possession  of  pleasant  quarters, 
was  readily  induced  to  stay,  and  took  up  again  her 
duties  as  secretary.  At  first  she  was  positive  as  to 


CIECUMSTANCE  237 

not  remaining,  but  Fairthorne  was  as  decided,  and 
would  not  hear  of  her  going.  No  one  else  was  con- 
sulted. Kitty  was  pleased,  and  Mary,  after  one 
stormy  talk  with  her  uncle,  was  silent. 

With  her  usual  explanatory  way  of  excusing 
Lionel,  Lucretia  accepted  his  abject  apology  for  his 
conduct  and  for  having  lost  her  in  the  smoke.  She 
said  little,  but  was  glad  that  the  fright  served  for 
a  time  to  keep  him  sober,  so  that  he  ceased  to  be  a 
source  of  annoyance  to  Grace's  head  clerk. 

Mr.  Pilgrim  was  still  in  the  Kanawha  country, 
and,  as  he  wrote,  was  likely  to  be  detained  there  for 
a  month  or  two.  Fortune  smiled  on  Lucretia,  and 
the  lost  wardrobe  had  been  amply  replaced  by  the 
help  of  a  check  the  size  of  which  would  have  sur- 
prised Mrs.  Swanwick  and  made  Miss  Kitty  jealous. 


XXV 

CR.  GRACE,  of  late  years  a  very  delib- 
erate man,  usually  acted  with  decision 
when  once  he  had  reached  a  conclu- 
sion. He  had  been  kept  a  little  uneasy 
by  the  financial  outlook,  but  it  affected 
him  far  less  than  the  fact  that  his  cook  had  an- 
nounced her  approaching  marriage.  This  chanced 
a  few  days  after  Mrs.  Swanwick  had  given  him 
advice. 

About  five  on  a  winter  afternoon  he  rang  at  the 
door  of  the  Misses  Markham.  He  was  by  no  means 
sure  as  to  what  he  would  do.  It  was  a  reconnais- 
sance brought  about  by  his  cook's  folly  and  Mrs. 
Swanwick 's  urgent  counsel. 

He  was  shown  into  the  front  parlor,  and  saw,  in 
the  dim  light,  two  little  ladies.  They  sat  beside 
a  small  table,  and  by  the  light  of  what  used  to  be 
called  an  astral  lamp  were  industriously  engaged. 
Miss  Clementina,  blushing,  hastily  concealed  from 
the  male  gaze  an  undergarment  which  she  was  mend- 
ing, Miss  Letitia  put  aside  her  tatting,  and  both 
bade  him  good  evening. 

"I  am  Mr.  Grace,"  he  said,  and  then,  with  busi- 
nesslike directness,   "I  hear,  Miss  Markham,   that 
your  house  is  empty.     I  am  considering  the  advisa- 
238 


CIRCUMSTANCE  239 

bility  of  taking  the  entire  house,  and  of  asking  you 
to  provide  for  me.  I  live  simply,  and  my  man- 
servant will  wait  on  me.  The  terms  are  unimpor- 
tant. I  should  like  to  come  at  once.  May  I  see  the 
house  ? ' ' 

Almost  instantly  on  entering  he  had  been  attracted 
by  the  room,  the  women,  the  old-time  serenity  of  the 
place.  It  was  unlike  any  boarding-house  he  had 
ever  seen.  He  had  decided. 

The  two  ladies  in  gray  silk  listened  until  he  ceased. 

"Mrs.  Swanwick  has  spoken  of  this  matter,  Mr. 
Grace,"  said  Letitia.  "Our  old  friend  Mr.  Wilson 
has  left  us,  and  it  is  true  that  we  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  receiving  guests  for  a  compensation." 

"We  like  to  call  them  guests,"  said  Clementina. 

"Sister!"  said  Miss  Markham. 

"Excuse  me,  Letitia." 

"I  will  put  on  paper  and  send  to  Mr.  Grace  what 
it  is  pleasanter  to  say  thus. ' ' 

"Mr.  Grace  will  comprehend,"  said  Clementina, 
"that,  being  alone  in  an  unfashionable  neighbor- 
hood, we  find  it  agreeable  to  have  one  or  two  gen- 
tlemen." 

"Single  gentlemen,"  said  Letitia. 

"Well,  I  am  very  single,"  returned  Grace,  smil- 
ing. "I  give  no  trouble.  When  I  have  one  or  two 
men  to  dine  in  my  sitting-room  I  can  order  dinner 
from  the  club." 

"I  fear  we  could  not  allow  that,"  said  Letitia. 

"No,  we  could  not,"  added  Miss  Clementina;  "it 
would  hurt  Susan's  feelings." 

"And  who  is  Susan,  may  I  ask?" 


240  CIKCUMSTANCE 

"Our  old  black  cook.    We  really  could  not." 

Grace  began  to  understand.  He  was  both  amused 
and  pleased. 

"We  shall  not  quarrel  as  to  that,"  he  said. 

"Susan's  terrapin,"  said  the  younger  Miss  Mark- 
ham,  "has  always  been  considered  remarkable." 

"That  is  mere  detail,  Clementina," 

"But,  Letitia,  we  could  not  turn  away  Mr.  Blount. 
He  has  an  attic." 

"On  no  account,"  returned  Mr.  Grace.  "I  know 
Mr.  Blount.  But  I  shall  want  the  whole  second  and 
third  stories,  and  to  dine  alone.  My  man  will  live 
elsewhere. ' ' 

"Excuse  us,  but  do  you  smoke  cigars,  Mr.  Grace?" 
said  Letitia,  gravely.  He  said  he  did.  Letitia 
thought  that  serious,  but  was  of  opinion  that  this 
might  be  passed  over  because  he  would  be  careful. 
Young  men  never  were.  And  would  Clementina  show 
him  the  house?  The  order  and  cleanliness  of  the 
ample  old  paneled  rooms,  and,  above  all,  Miss  Clem- 
entina's modest  depreciation  of  what  they  had  to 
offer,  delighted  him,  and,  like  Blount,  he  saw  here 
the  kindly  promise  of  a  home. 

When  that  night  he  received  Miss  Markham's  let- 
ter he  at  once  accepted  her  terms  and  sent  a  check 
in  advance  for  the  first  quarter.  Miss  Letitia  said 
it  was  a  liberty,  but  Clementina  thought  they  might 
pass  it  over  as  it  was  the  first  time. 

"What  pleasant,  old-fashioned  folk!"  he  said  to 
Margaret  Swan  wick.  ' '  I  cannot  thank  you  enough. ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "they  are  gentlewomen,  and 
have  suffered  sadly." 


CIECUMSTANCE  241 

"But  why,"  he  asked,  "does  Miss  Clementina 
dress  like  an  old  lady?  She  cannot  be  over  thirty, 
and  Miss  Letitia  is  at  least  forty-five  and  quite  gray. 
Miss  Clementina  is  pretty.  They  both  look  tired." 

"Yes,  the  dear  little  lady  thinks  that  it  is,  as  she 
says,  nice  to  dress  like  Letitia,  and  makes  Letitia 
feel  younger.  I  often  tell  her  I  should  like  to  order 
her  gowns.  I  did  not  say  to  you  how  very  poor, 
and  yet  how  touchy  they  are  as  to  being  helped." 

"I  guessed  it.  I  have  told  them  I  always  burn 
wood  in  my  rooms,  and  ordered  enough  to  last  all 
winter." 

"You  will  have  to  be  careful.  They  won't  like 
it  if  you  begin  in  that  sort  of  lavish  fashion. ' ' 

"I  saw  that.  And  they  have  no  gas  in  the  house. 
'It  is  unhealthy,'  said  Miss  Letitia,  'and  dangerous.' 
I  had  to  yield." 

Mrs.  Swanwick  laughed. 

"You  will  be  mildly  and  firmly  governed,  and  I 
do  assure  you  it  is  good  training  for  a  future  state. ' ' 

"A  future  state?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Not  there— here  on  this  earth— here." 

"Not  I,"  he  said. 


16 


XXVI 

|ONG  afterward  Mary  Fairthorne  de- 
clared that  the  only  thing  which  kept 
her  sane  that  winter  was  her  afternoon 
rides.  These  the  constancy  of  cold 
with  sunshine  favored,  and  indeed  they 

were  much  needed.     In  February  Mary  wrote  in 

her  diary: 

"Mohammed  was  right  when  he  said,  'Good  humor  is  the 
bride  of  the  rider.'  It  helps  me  wonderfully.  Kit  is  lost  to  me, 
and  more  than  ever  needs  me.  I  have  hardly  any  home  duties 
left.  I  live  a  narrowing  life  of  fretful  complaints  from  Kitty, 
and  reasonable  complaints  from  the  servants.  The  house  is  full 
of  unrest  and  suspicion.  It  is  hard  to  see  my  way.  I  know  only 
this :  I  will  not  be  maneuvered  out  or  driven  out.  The  woman 
is  astonishing,  and  I  am  simply  a  boarder." 

It  was  true.  She  was  almost  without  influence 
or  power  of  control.  Lucretia  had  become  more  es- 
sential to  Fairthorne  than  any  of  his  family.  The 
machinery  of  the  old  man's  subjection  was  simple. 
Miss  Mary  made  it  "hard"  for  her,  said  Lucretia. 
How  could  she  bear  it,  when  she  could  so  easily  find 
work  and  peace  elsewhere?  On  this  he  was  sure  to 
become  excited.  Should  he  speak  to  Mary?  No, 
no;  it  would  make  things  worse.  Then  there  were 
tears.  No,  she  would  never  leave  him. 

As  time  went  on,  Mary  retired  from  useless  battle. 
242 


CIECUMSTANCE  243 

Margaret  brought  Jack  to  the  house  no  more  than 
she  could  avoid,  and  Harry  came  only  on  business. 
Their  friends,  resentful  of  this  alien  rule,  unwisely 
ceased  to  visit  the  old  man,  and  he  was  left  more 
and  more  to  the  society  of  Lucretia.  He  made  no 
complaint.  She  was  amply,  patiently  competent  to 
keep  him  amused,  and  might  have  rested  at  ease 
except  for  the  inexplicable  pleasure  she  found  in 
petty  tyrannies  which  were  really  detrimental  to  the 
ultimate  plans  she  never  ceased  to  keep  in  view. 

As  Mary  ceased  to  resist,  she  turned  upon  Archer. 
She  had  driven  out  the  nieces;  she  had  narrowed 
John  Fairthorne's  world  to  the  few  who  could  not 
or  would  not  be  denied  access.  Her  success  had  been 
all  that  she  could  wish,  but  Lionel  had  failed  her. 
Kitty's  mind  was  elsewhere,  and  for  once  was  stable. 
Beyond  the  attainment  of  comfort  and  ease,  Lucre- 
tia had  been  disappointed.  Mrs.  Swanwick  would 
none  of  her,  and  the  staid  society  of  the  old 
town,  with  its  set  ways  and  indifference  to  wealth, 
surprised  her.  She  was  socially  inclined  and  at 
her  best  a  gay  companion,  but  here  the  houses  she 
would  have  liked  to  enter  were  closed  to  her.  She 
bitterly  resented  it. 

"What  Mary  Fairthorne  thought  of  the  situation 
she  now  and  then  confided  to  her  diary: 

"  This  woman  disturbs  me.  She  has,  I  think,  some  silly  idea 
that  those  queerly  set  eyes  affect  me.  I  met  her  suddenly  at 
dusk  yesterday  with  Felisa,  the  cat,  on  her  shoulder.  Certainly 
she  looked  like  an  evil  witch.  She  was  evidently  posing.  I 
laughed  and  said  I  hoped  I  had  not  startled  her.  She  did  not 
like  it.  Why  does  she  dress  in  black  and  yellow f  I  wish  I 
knew  her  history." 


244  CIRCUMSTANCE 

She  was  walking  her  horse  as  she  thought  over 
this  record  and  was  wondering  how  it  would  all  end. 
Hearing  hoofs  behind  her,  she  turned  and  saw  Syd- 
ney Archer,  also  on  horseback.  Her  face  lighted  up 
with  welcome  as  he  joined  her.  He  rarely  rode 
during  his  busy  winter,  but,  as  he  now  said,  the 
glory  of  the  winter  sun  had  tempted  him.  "I  am 
twice  rewarded,  Miss  Mary."  She  was  joyously 
happy  to  have  this  man  at  her  side. 

"What  luck!"  she  said.  "I  was  gloomily  busy, 
thinking  over  what  you  know  too  well — the  distracted 
state  of  my  uncle's  house." 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  "I  do  know  it  well.  I  have 
seen  this  sort  of  thing  before— oh,  more  than  once. 
But  what  can  you  do?  If  Mr.  Fairthorne  were 
worse  we  could  simply  take  command.  He  is  more 
excitable  and  is  slowly  becoming  weaker,  but  men- 
tally he  is  as  clear  as  ever,  with  an  intensification 
of  all  his  peculiarities — his  half-hidden  pride  of 
race,  his  dislike  of  contradiction,  his  closeness  about 
little  expenditures,  and,  what  is  rare  in  age,  his  will- 
ingness to  give  away  money  in  larger  sums.  Really, 
he  is  a  singular  character.  But  age  is  fast  chang- 
ing him.  He  is  not  the  John  Fairthorne  of  middle 
life." 

"Yes,  that  is  true.  Mr.  Pilgrim  once  said  that  he 
wondered  which  of  us  would  wake  up  in  the  world 
to  come." 

"Which? "he  asked. 

"Yes;  shall  we  awake  old  or  young?  We  are  in 
life  several  people.  That  is  his  wisdom,  not  mine ; 
but  the  thought  of  what  my  uncle  was  and  is  re- 
called it." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  245 

"It  was  like  Pilgrim.  In  fact,  the  situation  is 
full  of  danger.  Do  not  underrate  this  woman.  She 
is  no  common  schemer.  She  may  marry  him." 

"Good  gracious!" 

"I  do  not  think  she  will.  When  last  she  asked 
me  if  he  were  likely  to  live  long  I  said  he  might  live 
ten  years— and  he  may,  but  he  will  not.  It  made 
her  thoughtful,  I  saw  that.  She  was  reflecting  upon 
the  prospect.  Something  is  worrying  her." 

"Do  you  see  through  everybody  in  that  way?" 
asked  Mary. 

"Oh,  it  is  a  mere  guess.  You  put  yourself  in  the 
place  of  another,  and  'there  you  are.'  " 

"You  are  dangerously  clear-sighted,"  she  said. 

"Oh!  The  art  has  its  limitations.  If  I  should 
try  now  to  think  of  what  is  in  your  mind  I  should 
fail."  The  woman  turned  her  face  away,  feeling 
herself  flush,  and  touched  her  horse  with  the  spur. 
In  a  moment  Archer  was  cantering  at  her  side  again. 
She  laughed  as  she  called  to  him : 

"Have  the  kindness  to  keep  your  insight  for  Mrs. 
Hunter.  Is  n't  this  lowland  country  interesting?" 
They  were  now  on  the  road  which  led  to  Greenwich 
Point.  "Over  the  river  yonder  is  Red  Bank,  where 
the  Hessians  and  Count  Donap  failed,  and  this  in 
front  is  League  Island.  You  must  see  it  in  the 
spring.  It  is  like  Holland  then,  and  only  needs  a 
few  windmills."  She  went  on  talking  more  rap- 
idly than  usual,  while  he  watched  her  with  a  certain 
discomposure  he  could  not  have  explained.  She 
went  back  to  the  question  she  had  asked. 

"To  see  through  people  must  be  valuable  in  your 
profession.  I  envy  you  its  science,  its  variety  of 


246  CIRCUMSTANCE 

human  contacts,  the  feeling  that  you  are  helping 
people. ' ' 

"Well,"  he  said,  "Miss  Mary,  it  is  as  I  see  it  the 
best  line  of  human  endeavor." 

"And  you  give,"  she  said,  "so  much  to  the  hos- 
pitals, to  the  poor — not  as  others  give,  mere  money, 
but  hours  and  days  of  life,  of  thought. ' ' 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  he  returned,  "it  gets  to  be  too 
habitual  to  afford  nourishment  to  a  fellow's  self- 
approval.  ' ' 

"But  that  is  the  finest  thing  about  it,"  she  cried. 
"I  hate  to  hear  a  doctor  complain,  like  old  Dr. 
Soper." 

"And  yet,"  said  Archer,  "he  has  had  success." 

"But  men  on  the  front  bench  do  not  complain; 
or  do  they  ? ' ' 

"No;  but  he  is  not  on  the  front  bench,"  laughed 
Archer.  "By  the  way,  talking  of  these  matters  re- 
minds me  to  say  that  Miss  Morrow's  rector,  Knell- 
wood,  is  ill.  Grace  asked  me  to  see  him  yesterday. 
He  was  in  a  second-class  boarding-house,  in  a  room 
that  would  make  you  shudder.  There  was  hardly 
space  to  move  in  it.  The  furniture  was  shabby,  the 
floor  and  chairs  were  littered  with  books  and  papers, 
the  whole  place  was  incredibly  uncared  for.  It  was 
cold,  with  a  feeble  escape  of  warm  air  from  a  regis- 
ter, and  really  the  man  had  not  blankets  enough  to 
keep  him  warm." 

"How  dreadful!  Harry  says  he  has  a  very  good 
property.  I  suppose  that  he  actually  starves  him- 
self that  he  may  feed  and  help  the  poor.  I  do  wish 
I  liked  him  better.  It  seems  really  wrong  not  to 
like  him." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  247 

"If  you  are  at  all  like  me,  Miss  Mary,  you  will 
have  long  ago  ceased  wrestling  with  your  likes  and 
dislikes. ' ' 

"I  never  can.     But  what  can  we  do  for  him?" 

"Ah,  Mr.  Grace  always  asks  and  usually  answers 
that  question.  He  carried  him  off  at  once  to  the 
Misses  Markham's.  You  should  have  seen  their  dis- 
may, and  then  how  Letitia  and  Clementina  went  down 
before  Grace's  decisiveness.  Miss  Letitia  confided  to 
me  that  she  should  not  mind,  except  that  Clementina 
was  so  easily  influenced,  and  really,  his  religious 
views,  and  so  on — you  can  imagine  it  all.  I  repre- 
sented that  even  a  mild  attack  of  typhoid  would  ren- 
der him  harmless.  The  fun  of  it  is  that  Roger 
Grace,  who  likes  the  big  preacher  and  thinks  his 
doctrines  abominable,  vows  that  he  will  keep  him 
there  and  feed  him  like  a  decent  Christian. ' ' 

' '  I  tremble  for  Clementina, ' '  laughed  Mary.  ' '  Let 
us  gallop ;  here  is  a  good  bit  of  road. ' ' 

As  they  turned  their  horses  for  a  homeward  walk, 
Archer  said : 

"A  word  more  about  Mrs.  Hunter.  I  am  being 
endlessly  pestered  by  her  interference.  I  shall  fight 
it  out,  of  course ;  I  said  I  would.  I  see  that  you 
are  troubled ;  let  me,  as  an  old  friend,  ask  you  not 
to  conjure  up  all  manner  of  things  not  likely  to 
happen." 

"I  do,  I  do,"  she  said.  "I  sometimes  think  her 
wicked  enough  for  anything.  Margaret  is  never 
tired  of  quoting  what  Mr.  Pilgrim  said,  that  people 
with  too  much  imagination  pile  up  mountains  and 
then  have  to  climb  over  them." 

' '  Rather  elaborate,  that. ' ' 


248  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"No;  it  is  true  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"A  queer  type  of  man,"  said  Archer.  "So  prac- 
tical in  action,  so  efficient,  and  so — what  shall  I  say? 
So  fond  of  the  mystical." 

"Yes,  his  talk  is  often  too  indistinct  for  me.  I 
hear  they  are  having  trouble  about  those  coal-mines. 
Harry  showed  my  uncle  yesterday  a  letter  about 
them  and  Mr.  Pilgrim's  difficulties." 

As  they  rode  up  Swanson  Street  and  past  the  old 
Gloria  Dei  Church,  he  said: 

"Miss  Fairthorne,  you  are  very  fine  medicine  for  a 
busy  man.  It  is  good  to  be  made  to  forget  for  a  time. 
But  I  must  make  haste  now. ' ' 

' '  Thank  you.  I  ride  nearly  every  day,  and  always 
here. "  As  he  rode  away,  she  said  to  herself : 

"I  wish  I  had  not  said  that." 


XXVII 

Miss  Fairthorne  was  troubled  in  mind 
and  heart,  Mrs.  Hunter  had,  too,  her 
share  of  anxieties.  Lionel  had  been  so 
good  of  late  that  she  had  begun  to  feel 
there  must  be  enough  wrong  to  make 
him  afraid  to  confess,  for  usually  when  it  was  a 
question  of  money  he  was  anything  but  reserved. 
She  was  right.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  speculating 
in  a  small  way,  and  had  had  the  usual  first  luck  of 
the  fool.  He  was  living  in  the  center  of  a  vast 
business,  and  was  getting  used  to  seeing  this  enor- 
mous flow  of  checks,  notes,  and  gold.  The  abun- 
dance and  the  seeming  ease  of  it  all  might  have 
tempted  a  man  whose  only  honesty  was  the  child  of 
fear,  had  it  not  been  for  the  perfection  of  the  safe- 
guarding mechanism,  which,  even  to  his  small  mind, 
seemed  to  be  perilously  certain.  Just  now  he  owed 
an  importunate  broker  a  small  sum  of  money,  not 
over  two  hundred  dollars.  His  sister  had  recently 
been  less  indulgent  than  usual,  and  had  told  him  that 
he  had  thrown  away  chances.  He  had  said  in  reply 
that  Kitty  Morrow  did  not  "amuse"  him,  and  that 
it  was  "all  no  good."  In  fact,  it  had  never  been 
otherwise.  He  was  essentially  vulgar,  and  even 
249 


250  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Kitty's  uncritical  taste  could  not  stand  it.  At  this 
time  the  devil  set  for  him  an  easy  trap. 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  invited  him  one  afternoon  to 
Mr.  Fairthorne's  study  at  a  time  when  its  owner  was 
taking  his  afternoon  nap.  Lionel,  who  drew  a  little 
and  sang  a  little  and  did  no  one  thing  well,  was 
shown  the  musical  autographs.  His  sister  set  be- 
fore him  with  pride  the  catalogue  she  was  making, 
and  then  the  large  portfolio  in  which  were  the  auto- 
graphs of  Gluck,  Mozart,  Handel,  and  others. 

"This  will  please  you,"  she  said,  "you  who  love 
music.  You  may  look  them  over.  I  will  be  back 
in  a  minute.  I  left  my  desk  unlocked. ' ' 

He  turned  over  the  collection  in  a  languid  way. 
Nothing  interested  him  until  he  noticed  the  cost 
prices  set  down  on  the  covers.  One,  an  autograph 
of  Beethoven,  surprised  him,  as  he  was  absolutely 
ignorant  of  the  absurd  value  attained  by  such  manu- 
script. He  read : 


"Bought  of  Donaldson  &  Co.,  London,  June  9,  1855.  See 
Annesly's  Catalogue,  No.  73,  1849,  p.  9.  Value,  $700.  Sold  at 
Van  Gliick's  sale  for  £110." 


A  thief  of  intelligence  would  have  reflected  be- 
fore taking  a  document  which  must  have  been  so  well 
known  to  collectors.  He  had  hardly  a  moment  of 
hesitation.  Neither  he  nor  his  sister  had  the  moral 
mechanism  we  speak  of  as  conscience.  In  her  its 
function  was  partially  replaced  by  a  variety  of  con- 
straining or  restraining  motives  which  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  act  in  question's  being  wrong  or  right. 


CIECUMSTANCE  251 

Her  brother  was  the  unintelligent  slave  of  impulse, 
and  had  too  little  imagination  to  serve  him  by  predict- 
ing unpleasant  results.  He  had  been  guilty  of  small 
thefts  when  at  college  and  had  escaped  detection. 
The  dog  who  steals  a  chop  gives  no  more  thought  to 
it  than  Lionel  Craig  gave  to  his  theft  when  he  but- 
toned his  waistcoat  over  the  precious  autograph  of 
Beethoven's  Ninth  Symphony.  He  closed  the  port- 
folio, picked  up  the  nearest  volume,  and  was  glancing 
at  the  sketches  of  trees  in  old  Gilpin's  delightful 
book  ''Remarks  on  Forest  Scenery,"  when  his  sister 
returned. 

"I  thought  I  should  find  you  lost  in  those  Schu- 
bert songs,  you  who  sing  so  well.  I  should  not  have 
thought  you  would  prefer  a  book.  That  is  a  favor- 
ite of  Mr.  Fairthorne 's.  He  is  fond  of  trees.  You 
must  go  out  with  me  some  day  and  see  the  country 
place. ' ' 

He  said  that  would  be  very  pleasant,  and,  unea- 
sily desirous  to  get  away,  rose  as  she  replaced  the 
portfolio. 

The  fourth  day  after  Lionel  had  stolen  the  auto- 
graph Mrs.  Hunter  and  Mr.  Fairthorne  were  recon- 
sidering— and  he  reconsidered  a  great  deal — a  novel 
method  of  arranging  the  musical  autographs.  In 
his  youth  he  had  played  the  flute  a  little  and  ever 
after  believed  himself  a  good  musical  critic.  Sud- 
denly, looking  up  from  the  portfolio,  he  said : 

"The  Beethoven  Symphony  is  out  of  place." 

Mrs.  Hunter  reflected. 

"Miss  Mary  was  showing  the  autographs  to  Mrs. 
Vincent  yesterday.  It  must  be  here. ' ' 


252  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Find  Mary,"  he  said.  "I  will  not  have  my 
papers  meddled  with.  Mary  has  no  sense  of  order. ' ' 

When  his  niece  appeared,  he  said:  "You  have  lost 
my  Beethoven  autograph.  I  want  it  understood  once 
for  all  that  no  one  but  Lucretia  is  to  handle  my 
collection.  Where  is  it?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  did  not  show  Mrs.  Vincent  the 
musical  autographs.  She  wanted  to  see  the  writing 
of  Blake  and  Poe.  I  know  nothing  of  these  musical 
papers." 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "I  must  believe  you;  and 
now,  I  desire  to  repeat — " 

"What !  Stop,  sir !  One  word  more  like  this,  and 
I  go  to  Margaret's.  You  will  apologize  at  once— at 
once. ' '  She  stood  before  him,  tall,  erect,  and  flushed, 
with  anger  in  her  steady  gaze. 

Mrs.  Hunter  hesitated.  A  word  would  complete 
the  mischief  and  drive  out  this  troublesome  girl. 
She  waited  a  moment  too  long,  for  as  Mary,  turn- 
ing away,  said,  "Good-bye,  sir,"  John  Fairthorne 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  exclaimed :  "  I  was  hasty,  Mary. 
You  won't  leave  me.  You  must  pardon  the  ill  tem- 
per of  an  old  man.  Do  not  go." 

Any  admission  of  age  or  failure  was  so  foreign 
to  his  ordinary  habits  that  Mary's  anger  of  a  sud- 
den fell  away  to  pity. 

"That  is  enough,  uncle."  She  would  have  said 
more  had  Mrs.  Hunter  been  absent. 

Lucretia  spent  an  unhappy  day  in  search  of  the 
lost  document.  When  at  last  Mr.  Fairthorne,  dis- 
satisfied, asked  who  of  late  had  been  allowed  to  see 
the  autographs  she  suddenly  remembered. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  253 

After  leaving  her  uncle,  Mary  went  up  to  her 
room,  saying,  "Could  she  have  taken  it?" 

This  was  unjust,  both  to  Mrs.  Hunter 's  intelligence 
and  her  habits.  The  margins  of  the  distinctly  crimi- 
nal she  knew  well  enough,  but  there  temptation 
ceased,  subdued  by  the  fear  of  results.  She  was  cold- 
blooded and  passionless,  but  if  she  loved  at  all,  or  if 
what  grief  she  now  felt  were  the  outcome  of  attach- 
ment rather  than  affection,  Lionel  Craig  was  the  only 
man  or  woman  who  possessed  for  her  even  this  slen- 
der claim  on  her  heart.  There  are  women  capable 
of  keeping  up  one  such  relation  at  a  time,  and  no 
more. 

She  waited  that  night  in  Lionel's  room  until  he 
came  in.  He  had  moved  again,  or  rather  had 
been  ordered  to  move,  and  was  now  in  a  shabby 
hotel,  where  he  could  afford  a  small  room  on  the 
third  floor.  He  had  a  fear  of  fire  which  haunted  his 
dreams. 

The  room  was  dirty  and  ill  kept.  On  the  walls 
were  pinned  photographs  of  actresses  and  others, 
some  signed  affectionately.  In  the  corner  were  half 
a  dozen  canes.  The  wash-basin  was  still  full  of 
water.  The  room  smelled  of  patchouli  and  tobacco. 
On  the  unswept  carpet  were  cigarette  ashes. 

Lucretia,  a  clean,  neat  creature,  saw  it  all  with 
disgust.  She  opened  a  window  and  wondered 
whether  it  were  worth  while  to  try  any  longer  to 
help  him.  He  was  startled  to  find  her  in  his  room. 
She  lost  no  time. 

"Give  me  those  autograph  sheets  you  stole.  My 
heavens!  what  a  fool  you  are!  You  might  as  well 


264  CIRCUMSTANCE 

steal  the  Koh-i-nur  or  a  great  Raphael.  No  one 
who  knows  its  value  will  dare  to  buy  it.  Any  one 
who  ventured  to  advertise  it  would  be  caught  and 
would  tell.  Give  it  to  me." 

"I  did  n't  take  it,"  he  said. 

"You  cannot  even  lie  cleverly.  You  are  sus- 
pected, and  will  be  arrested."  He  turned  pale  and 
sat  down. 

"I  have  n't  got  it.  I  sold  it  to  that  man  on 
South  Street.  I  let  him  have  it  for  eighty  dollars 
because  he  said  he  would  sell  it  in  Chicago.  He 
would  n't  give  any  more.  I  did  the  best  I  could. 
I  had  to  have  money." 

"Oh,  Lionel,"  she  cried,  "you  will  ruin  us!  And 
\j  to  rob  a  man  who  is  so  good  to  me  and  who  made 
Mr.  Grace  keep  you!  It  was  wicked." 

She  did  not  herself  honestly  feel  what  she  was 
x  saying,  but  perhaps  Lionel  would.  He  said  he  might 
get  it  back,  but  that  he  owed  altogether  three  hun- 
dred dollars,  and  how  could  he  pay  it?  The  fear 
of  arrest  was  her  best  argument.  She  repeated  it, 
and  at  last  said  that  in  the  morning  she  would  send 
him  a  check.  And — no,  she  herself  would  try  to 
recover  the  autograph,  and  hoped  to  be  able  to  warn 
him  in  time  if  the  police  suspected  him  as  others 
did.  She  left  him  in  a  state  of  abject  terror. 

When,  next  morning,  Lucretia  found  the  little 
cripple  in  his  shop  on  South  Street  she  was  not  less 
direct  than  she  had  been  with  Lionel  Craig. 

"Let  us  talk  in  the  back  of  your  shop,  Mr. 
Peachin."  He  went  before  her  and  dusted  a  stool. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  will  not  sit  down.     You  tried 


CIRCUMSTANCE  255 

to  sell  Mr.  Fairthorne  forged  letters  of  his  grand- 
father. They  were  well  done,  but  as  I  urged  on  Mr. 
Fairthorne  that  you  were  poor  and  perhaps  yourself 
the  ignorant  dupe  of  another  he  did  not  take  any 
further  steps." 

"I  did  n't  guarantee—" 

"Quite  true;  but  you  did  them  yourself,  and  he 
could  have  very  seriously  troubled  you  and  utterly 
ruined  your  business.  No  matter.  We  did  not  fol- 
low it  up.  Now  some  one  has  stolen  from  him  a 
musical  autograph.  It  has  been  traced  to  you  as 
the  receiver.  Give  it  to  me." 

He  said  he  had  sold  it. 

' '  To  whom  and  for  what  ? ' ' 

When  he  declared  that  he  could  n't  tell  she  knew 
that  he  was  lying. 

"Very  well;  you  say  that  you  paid  eighty  dollars. 
I  am  prepared  to  repay  you  and  ten  dollars  over. 
No  ?  Then,  good-bye  ;  you  will  hear  more  of  it. ' ' 

When,  as  had  happened  before,  she  was  a  block 
away,  the  cripple  hobbled  after  her.  She  had  of 
purpose  gone  slowly.  He  said: 

"If  you  will  say  one  hundred  you  may  have  it." 

She  said,  "No,"  and  at  last  he  agreed  for  ninety 
dollars,  and  they  went  back  to  the  shop.  She  looked 
the  sheets  over.  They  were  all  there.  The  cover 
Lionel  had  not  taken.  She  paid  in  notes. 

"If,"  she  said,  "you  get  any  really  valuable  auto- 
graphs, let  me  know.  Here  is  my  card.  I  will  drop 
in  now  and  then.  But  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you." 

As  she  went  out,  he  said :  ' '  Are  you  any  relation  to 
the  young  man  who  brought  me  those  papers?" 


256  CIRCUMSTANCE 

' '  Oh,  it  was  a  young  man,  was  it  ?  That  is  strange. 
We  suspected  a  young  woman. ' ' 

The  cripple  looked  after  her.  "They  're  as  like 
as  two  peas. ' '  He  did  not  believe  in  the  value  stated 
by  Craig,  and  was  well  contented.  So  also  was  Mrs. 
Hunter.  But  she  kept  her  brother  usefully  uneasy 
for  days. 

When  she  found  the  missing  music  script  in  the 
large  portfolio  of  autographs  of  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  her  tearful  joy  at  this 
discovery  was  a  touching  thing  to  see. 

Meanwhile,  she  watched  the  mail,  and  knew  that 
Mr.  Pilgrim  was  still  busy  in  West  Virginia. 

Kitty  had  long  since  given  up  all  charge  of  her 
uncle  and  Mrs.  Hunter  was  now  the  only  person 
to  whom  Archer  could  look  to  execute  his  orders. 
It  too  often  happened  that  what  he  wished  done 
was  not  done,  and  at  last  he  resolved  to  make  a 
stand. 

One  morning,  as  usual  after  his  visit,  Mrs.  Hunter 
waited  in  the  drawing-room  to  receive  his  instruc- 
tions. In  place  of  standing  for  the  brief  time  his 
purpose  required,  Sydney  Archer  closed  the  door, 
and  saying,  "Sit  down,  Mrs.  Hunter;  I  want  to 
talk  to  you,"  took  a  seat  opposite  to  her. 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  she  returned.  "What 
is  it?" 

"I  am  an  old  friend  of  the  people  of  this  house." 

"They  are  fortunate." 

"Pardon  me,  I  want  to  say  certain  things  without 
interruption.  I  am  an  old  friend,  and  you  are  a 
newcomer.  You  have,  no  doubt,  excellent  intentions, 
but  somehow  you  have  been  able  to  obtain  a  control 


CIRCUMSTANCE  267 

over  Miss  Morrow  and  Mr.  Fairthorne  which,  as  I 
see  it,  is  not  wholesome.  You  will  say,  perhaps, 
that  it  is  none  of  my  business.  As  to  John  Fair- 
thorne personally  I  do  not  care.  Miss  Morrow  has 
relatives  who  should  be  able  to  see  that  no  harm 
comes  to  her.  But  through  Mr.  Fairthorne 's  weak- 
ness you  have  been  able  and  willing  to  set  aside  a 
woman  who  unfailingly  carried  out  my  orders.  That 
is  my  complaint.  This  cannot  go  on,  or — ' ' 

Mrs.  Hunter  smiled  meaningly.  He  understood 
it,  and,  a  little  nettled,  continued :  "  It  has  hurt  her, 
but  what  has  happened  is  not  alone  her  concern.  It 
is  in  part  mine.  She  is  naturally  the  person  on 
whom  he  should  lean.  You  have  thrust  her  aside, 
and  now,  in  place  of  my  orders  being  complied  with, 
I  find  that  you  are  giving  him  medicines  of  your 
own  choosing,  or  that  he  is  induced  to  drive  out  or 
in  one  way  or  another  to  disregard  my  wishes.  It  is 
useless  to  go  into  particulars." 

"Quite  useless,  Dr.  Archer.  I  have  no  belief  in 
doctors.  It  is  only  necessary  for  a  man  of  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne's  intelligence  to  believe  intently  that  pain  is 
not  a  reality,  that  we  are  spiritually  powerful  to 
decree  the  absence  of  disease.  I  cannot  conscien- 
tiously stand  by  and  see  used  what  I  believe  to  be 
hurtful  methods."  It  is  probable  that  she  was  dis- 
honest in  her  statement ;  it  is  quite  possible  that  she 
was  honest.  People  who  have  no  religion  are  very 
likely  to  feed  the  human  love  of  mystery  with  one 
of  the  many  unwholesome  diets  of  folly. 

Sydney  Archer  had  heard  this  kind  of  talk  often 
enough  to  know  that  argument  was  valueless,  even 
had  he  been  inclined  to  argue. 

17 


258  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Frankly,"  he  said,  "all  these  notions  and  the  x 
books  on  them  are  the  very  apotheosis  of  the  vague.  V 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  or  your  views.  I 
am  Mr.  Fairthorne's  physician,  and  so  long  as  I  am 
I  mean  to  be  obeyed.  No,  wait  a  moment  more. 
The  thing  is  simple.  I  do  not  know  your  object  in 
bringing  misrule  and  unhappiness  into  this  house. 
If  you  let  me  and  my  work  alone  I  shall  do  nothing 
to  displace  or  disturb  you,  or  shall  warn  you  if  I 
do.  But  if  you  interfere  with  what  I  think  my  duty, 
take  care!  That  is  all."  He  rose,  saying:  "I  have 
changed  the  treatment  somewhat,  and  here  are  my 
written  directions." 

Mrs.  Hunter  also  stood  up  and  fixing  upon  him 
the  gaze  which  some  people  thought  unpleasing  was 
still  for  a  moment.  She  then  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
carefully  kept  free  of  angry  emphasis:  "You  mis- 
take the  situation.  I  have  made  no  effort  to  live 
here,  or  to  become  Mr.  Fairthorne's  secretary.  It 
was  the  accidental  result  of  Miss  Morrow's  attach- 
ment. Mr.  Fairthorne  found  that  I  was  able  to  do 
certain  work,  and  to  do  it  well.  Kitty  was  too  young, 
Miss  Fairthorne  was  incompetent  and  careless." 
Her  voice  rose;  she  hated  Mary  Fairthorne.  "If  I 
say  that  she  neglected  her  uncle,  it  is  his  charge,  not 
mine.  She  has  made  my  duties  hard  and  has  treated 
me  with  insolence. ' ' 

Archer  wished  this  woman  were  a  man,  but  he 
kept,  to  appearance,  the  calm  of  one  used  to  self- 
command. 

"We  are  a  little  off  the  track,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  it  is  not  easy  to  bear  what  I  have  endured 


CIRCUMSTANCE  259 

and  to  make  no  complaint.  I  shall  refer  these  ques- 
tions to  Mr.  Fairthorne." 

"Why  not  now,  at  once?" 

"I  prefer  to  consider  Mr.  Fairthorne  more  than 
you  seem  inclined  to  do.  He  is  not  at  all  well 
to-day." 

"Come  up-stairs  with  me,"  he  said.  "I  am  un- 
willing to  let  this  matter  rest  here.  You  may  follow 
me  or  not,  as  you  like. ' ' 

' '  I  shall  do  exactly  as  I  please. ' ' 

Archer  smiled.  There  was  a  vibrant  note  of  vul- 
garity in  the  voice  that  was  commonly  soft  and  pleas- 
ant. He  went  up-stairs,  she  following. 

It  was,  in  fact,  one  of  John  Fairthorne 's  better 
days.  Very  little  things  affected  him,  for  good  or 
ill.  Archer  had  amused  him  by  an  account  of  Mar- 
tin Blount  and  Margaret's  efforts  to  instruct  him. 

"By  George !"  he  cried,  laughing  in  his  old  hearty 
way,  "that  must  be  a  comical  trio,  the  Presbyterian 
Grace,  that  ultimate  churchman  Knell  wood, — ulti- 
mate is  a  good  adjective ;  the  adjectives  get  worn 
out,  used  up;  'extreme,'  Mary  would  say, — and 
your  plow-boy  Blount  bothering  to  get  an  education. 
There  is  too  much  education — makes  the  masses  un- 
happy. Damn  education !  It  is  a  premium  on  dis- 
content. It  is  very  well  for  the  upper  classes." 

Archer  had  laughed.  "What  class  would  you  be- 
long to  if  you  had  not  a  dollar?  Martin  Blount 's 
plow-boy  life  was  a  cruel  accident  of  poverty.  His 
people  were  in  eminent  colonial  place  before  yours 
landed  in  this  State." 

"Is  that  so?     I  should  like  to  see  him." 


260  CIRCUMSTANCE 

This  talk  had  amused  him,  and  he  liked  to  be 
amused.  It  was  part  of  Lucretia's  unending  attrac- 
tiveness. She  did  what  Mary  had  ceased  to  do  and 
what  Kitty  could  not,  and  was,  in  fact,  a  gay  and 
clever  raconteur,  with  no  very  lively  scruples  as  to 
the  character  of  her  stories. 

When  the  doctor  reentered  the  library  John  Fair- 
thorne  was  at  the  window,  studying  an  autograph 
letter  of  Aaron  Burr.  As  he  turned,  Archer  was 
struck  with  the  look  of  interest  in  his  handsome  old 
face.  He  had  the  blue  eyes  which  do  not  show,  as 
dark  eyes  do,  the  signals  of  degenerative  decay.  He 
was  saying  to  Mary,  who  had  just  given  him  the 
monthly  account  of  household  expenditures,  "If 
you  find  it  correct  that  will  do. ' '  Mary  was  amazed. 
Never  before  had  he  failed  to  inspect  it.  She  rightly 
took  it  for  a  bad  sign. 

"Do  not  go,  Miss  Fairthorne,"  said  Archer.  She 
waited. 

"Mr.  Fairthorne,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  have  asked 
Mrs.  Hunter  to  come  back  with  me.  I  find  that  she 
is  continually  interfering  with  my  orders.  My  pre- 
scriptions are  given  irregularly,  or  not  given.  It  is 
of  the  utmost  moment  that  certain  things  should  be 
avoided,  and  that  the  heart  be  sustained  by  syste- 
matically given  tonics.  I  am  of  opinion  that— 

Fairthorne  stopped  him  with  a  lifted  hand. 

"I  do  not  want  to  hear  about  my  heart.  It  al- 
ways upsets  me. ' '  He  became  at  once  excited.  His 
head  shook  tremulously. 

Mrs.  Hunter  said,  under  her  breath:  "I  told  you 
so,  Dr.  Archer.  It  is  most  unwise.  Sit  down,  sir, 
do  sit  down." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  261 

Mr.  Fairthorne  obeyed  her,  saying,  "I  do  not  like 
these  discussions." 

' '  I  did  not  bring  it  about.     I  warned  Dr.  Archer. ' ' 

Archer  took  no  notice  of  her. 

"The  question  is,  am  I  to  control  a  difficult  case, 
or  is  an  ignorant  woman  to  do  it?" 

"You  must  not  speak  that  way,  Sydney,"  said  the 
old  man.  "I— I  won't  have  it." 

' '  Will  you  kindly  answer  me  ? ' ' 

"What  about?"  He  looked  from  face  to  face,  as 
if  puzzled. 

"Dr.  Archer  thinks  I  neglect  you,  sir.  He  wishes 
me  to  go."  She  caught  up  a  fan  and  used  it,  fan- 
ning him. 

"I  said  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Archer. 

"Mrs.  Hunter — Lucretia,  you  won't  leave  me! 
And  you  will  not  desert  me,  Sydney.  I  don't  want 
these  discussions."  With  the  childlike  cunning  of 
age,  he  took  refuge  in  the  appeal  of  weakness.  "I 
cannot  stand  it ;  I  am  not  strong  enough. ' ' 

Archer  knew  that  it  was  at  best  a  drawn  battle. 
He  said : 

"Very  good.  We  can  talk  of  it  another  time.  A 
word  with  you,  Miss  Mary.  Good  morning. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hunter  smiled.  Archer  went  down-stairs  in 
silence  with  Miss  Fairthorne. 

"Come  in  a  moment,"  he  said.  He  closed  the 
door.  ' '  Sit  down.  Well,  I  failed,  as  you  saw.  For 
your  sake  and  his  I  am  sorry." 

' '  But  you  will  not  give  him  up  ?  " 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Oh,  you  must  not.  I  know  what  you  feel.  It  is 
responsibility  without  power.  But  do  not  go.  I  am 


262  CIRCUMSTANCE 

getting  what  Kitty  calls  nerves.  I  never  knew  I  had 
them.  This  woman  is — she  has  the  unexpectedness 
of  a  ghost.  Suddenly,  anywhere  in  the  house,  I  find 
her  behind  me.  I  think  she  follows  me.  And  the  cat 
never  leaves  her.  The  servants  hate  her,  and  I  am 
in  endless  trouble.  You  won't  leave  us,  will  you?" 
The  evident  distress  and  emotion  of  this  strong  and 
usually  tranquil  girl  again  affected  him. 

"No.  Rely  on  me.  I  do  not  think  her  dangerous. 
She  wants  money.  She  will  get  it,  no  doubt.  The 
trouble  is  that  I  shall  be  replaced  by  some  more 
manageable  man.  Now  it  is  open  war.  Suppose  I 
volunteer  a  little  medical  advice.  Get  on  horseback 
to-day.  I  will  join  you  if  I  may.  We  will  talk  any- 
thing but  Mrs.  Hunter." 

' '  With  pleasure.     At  four  f ' ' 

"Yes."  He  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  then 
went  away. 

Mrs.  Hunter  made  up  her  mind  that  Dr.  Archer 
must  go ;  but  when,  next  day,  she  approached  the 
matter,  Mr.  Fairthorne  showed  so  much  annoyance 
that  she  made  sure  it  was  best  to  wait.  She  could 
wait,  and  meanwhile  would  compromise  a  little  and 
seem  to  obey  this  unmanageable  doctor. 


XXVIII 

[LEMENTINA, ' '  said  Miss  Letitia  Mark- 
ham,  one  afternoon  in  the  beginning  of 
March,  "we  have  a  great  deal  to  be 
thankful  for." 

The  younger  lady  looked  up  from  her 
darning  of  Martin  Blount's  socks. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we  have,  indeed,  much  to  be 
thankful  for.  Mr.  Blount  gives  so  little  trouble. 
How  much  he  improves !  When  first  he  came  he  was 
almost  rude." 

"And  his  nails,  Clementina." 

' '  And  his  cuffs,  Letitia. ' ' 

"I  had  reference  rather  to  Mr.  Grace,  dear,  when 
I  first  spoke.  He  is,  so  to  speak,  plain." 

"But  not  common,  sister.  You  surely  would  not 
say  that  of  him." 

"No,  and  very  delicate  in  his  kindness.  One 
would  hardly  have  expected  it.  But,  dear,  you  will 
not  mind,  Clementina,  if  I  say  that  after  I  retire  you 
sit  up  rather  late  talking  to  Mr.  Grace.  You  know, 
dear,  we  are  single  women,  living  alone,  and  we  have 
to  be  careful. ' ' 

A  faint  little  blush,  like  the  first  signal  of  the 
dawn  of  some  emotion,  rose  from  cheek  to  brow,  as 
Clementina  returned :  ' '  He  is  often  interesting,  Leti- 


264  CIRCUMSTANCE 

tia,  and  we  see  so  very  few  people  who  are  that." 
As  she  spoke  the  darning-ball  rolled  out  of  the  stock- 
ing. She  bent  to  pick  it  up. 

Letitia  went  on:  "I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you 
think  that  I  really  imagine  there  could  be  any  impro- 
priety, but  last  night  it  was  quite  eleven  before — 

"He  wanted  to  talk  about  Mr.  Knell  wood,  and  it 
did  not  seem  polite  to  leave  him.  After  all,  we  are 
his  hosts,  dear  Letitia." 

"Are  you  aware  that  you  interrupted  me,  Clem- 
entina?" 

"Excuse  me,  sister." 

"We  will  drop  the  subject.  I  am  sure  you  under- 
stand me.  Katherine  Morrow  was  here  to-day  again. 
I  do  not  think  it  very  nice  that  she  should  be  inces- 
santly sending  Mr.  Knellwood  soups  and  flowers. 
In  my  day  young  women  were  better  looked  after. 
She  appears  to  go  her  own  way. ' ' 

It  was  late  of  a  Saturday  night,  and  at  this  mo- 
ment Martin  Blount  came  in. 

"Come  to  the  fire,  Mr.  Blount,"  said  Miss  Clemen- 
tina; "you  look  cold.  It  is  still  wintry." 

' ' Oh,  no, ' '  he  said ;  "all  I  want  is  to  sit  down  and 
feel  home.  It  is  very  nice  to  feel  home." 

"What  a  curious  expression!"  said  Clementina. 
' '  I  suppose  you  mean  at  home. ' ' 

"Oh,  more  than  that.  Mr.  Grace  says  you  spoil 
us  all.  And  to  think  that  some  day  I  must  leave  you ! 
I  ought  to  be  glad,  I  suppose.  I  heard  to-day  that  I 
am  to  have  the  clerkship  at  Bedford  Springs  this 
summer.  I  shall  save  a  lot  of  money  to  go  on  with 
next  winter.  Is  n't  it  jolly,  Miss  Letitia?" 


CIRCUMSTANCE  265 

"Jolly  seems  hardly  the  correct  word— satisfac- 
tory, I  should  say,  Mr.  Blount." 

"What  is  satisfactory?"  said  Grace,  as  he  dis- 
tributed a  pleasant  greeting.  "I  want  you  to  try  the 
tea  I  sent  to-day,  Miss  Letitia." 

"But  it  is  a  whole  chest,"  said  Miss  Markham, 
with  a  mild  sense  of  injury. 

"Were  there  some  books  came  two  days  ago?"  he 
asked.  "Those  were  the  books  we  talked  about  last 
week,  Miss  Clementina — 'Cranford,'  and  'Little  Ped< 
lington, '  and  the  '  Religio  Medici. '  ' 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  murmured  the  younger  woman. 

"Is  Knell  wood  asleep?" 

Martin  said:  "Yes."  He  had  been  up  to  see, 
Then  Blount  told  his  good  news  to  Mr.  Grace. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Grace;  "very  satisfactory,  very 
much  so.  You  go  in  June,  you  say?  In  June?'" 
As  he  spoke  he  seated  himself  at  the  fire.  He  took 
the  fire-tongs  and  put  a  lump  of  soft  coal  on  the 
smoldering  hickory  logs.  It  seemed  a  needless  waste 
to  Letitia,  whom  poverty  had  painfully  taught  to  be 
sparing.  Then,  remembering  that  it  was  Mr.  Grace 's 
coal  and  also  his  wood,  she  fell  into  the  lap  of  hu- 
miliation because  of  this  lavish  guest  who  sat  assault- 
ing the  coal  at  intervals  with  the  poker. 

Miss  Clementina  cast  now  and  then  a  furtive  side- 
glance,  wondering  what  was  keeping  him  so  quiet. 
Martin  took  up  one  of  the  books  Grace  had  sent,  and 
was  soon  absorbed  in  the  "Religio  Medici." 

Only  the  candle-light,  of  late  amply  used,  and  the 
red  flame  of  the  fire  lighted  the  dulled  white  panel- 
ing. From  the  walls  a  half-dozen  colonial  gentlefolk 


266  CIRCUMSTANCE 

looked  down  on  the  new  and  urgent  generation,  the 
man  who  had  risen  and  the  man  who  meant  to  rise, 
the  latter  deep  in  wonder  concerning  the  seven- 
teenth-century doctor. 

A  little  apart  from  the  fire  sat  the  gentle  Clemen- 
tina, pretending,  in  dress  and  ways,  to  be  as  old  as 
her  sister,  "because,  dear"— this  had  been  said  to 
Margaret  Swan  wick — "it  does  please  her.  I  know  it 
does."  Beside  her,  with,  for  a  wonder,  idle  hands, 
was  Letitia,  nursing  the  fiction  that  Clementina  was 
still  so  young  as  to  need  supervision  and  a  control 
which  only  love  perfected  made  always  endurable. 
She  had  said,  earlier  in  the  evening,  to  the  younger 
woman : 

"I  have  looked  over  those  books,  dear.  One  of 
them  I  cannot  quite  approve  of.  I  mean  as  to  its 
religious  views,  dear."  Clementina  had  said  that 
she  would  be  careful  not  to  let  the  quaint  doctor  do 
harm,  and  then,  with  modest  approach  to  the  hu- 
morous : 

' '  I  think  you  read  it  all,  Letitia !  You  might  ask 
Mr.  Knellwood  to  have  mass  for  the  soul  of  that 
delightful  old  doctor." 

Letitia  had  said:  "You  surprise  me,  sister."  In 
fact,  of  late  Clementina  had  seemed  to  her  "vola- 
tile, quite  volatile." 

Just  now,  as  I  have  said,  Miss  Markham  was  idle, 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  tearful  as  she  turned 
her  gaze  on  the  blue  uniform  of  the  boy  brother  who 
had  said :  ' '  There  must  be  another  general  in  the 
family,"  and  had  gone  away  to  die  on  the  sad  hill- 
side at  Fredericksburg.  They  were  all  unusually 


CIRCUMSTANCE  267 

silent.  At  last  Clementina  said :  ' '  Kitty  Morrow  left 
fruit  here  to-day,  a  basketful,  and  fresh  eggs  from 
her  uncle's  farm,  and  yesterday  soup.  Dr.  Archer 
declares  that  Susan's  soup  is  better.  He  forbade 
fruit." 

"Now,"  cried  Martin,  laughing,  "I  know  why  I 
have  such  splendid  lunch-baskets.  I  thought  Miss 
Clementina  was  extravagant." 

"And  the  Easter  lilies,"  said  Clementina;  "Mr. 
Knellwood  ordered  them  taken  away.  He  was  al- 
most cross.  Mrs.  Hunter  brought  them." 

"I  wonder  where  that  woman  came  from,"  re- 
marked Grace.  "A  singular  face." 

"I  saw  her  somewhere  once,"  said  Martin,  "but 
I  cannot  say  where. ' ' 

"I  think  Miss  Mary  Fairthorne  and  some  others 
would  like  to  know,"  said  Clementina.  "Tom  Mas- 
ters says  she  is  making  trouble  for  our  dear  Mary 
Fairthorne.  I  think  he  called  her  'a  vindictive 
cat.'  " 

Martin  laughed : ' '  That  's  descriptive. ' ' 

"She  quite  controls  Kitty,"  said  Clementina,  "and 
has  filled  her  with  folly  about  spirit  rappings." 

"I  think  I  would  n't  gossip,  sister,"  said  Letitia, 
rising.  Martin,  with  freshly  acquired  courtesy, 
opened  the  door  and  the  two  little  figures  departed. 

"Martin,"  said  Grace,  abruptly,  "give  up  that 
clerkship.  I  want  the  books  at  my  country  house 
catalogued.  Let  us  consider  it  a  business  matter. 
You  will  have  time  to  study.  I  really  need  you. ' ' 

Martin  smiled  in  his  grave,  slow  way.  "No,  Mr. 
Grace,  I  want  to  fight  it  out.  I  have  been  too  much 


268  CIRCUMSTANCE 

helped  already.  I— well,  it  humiliates  a  fellow. 
You  will  excuse  me,  but  I  can't  do  it.  Dr.  Archer 
says  you  are  the  most  ingeniously  kind  man  he  ever 
knew.  He  says  you  ought  to  patent  some  of  your 
ways  of  helping  people." 

Martin  was  shrewd  enough  to  understand  the  pres- 
ent excuse  for  helpfulness.  Had  he  known  the  rea- 
son back  of  it  he  would  have  been  astonished. 

"Well,"  said  Grace,  "I  used  to  feel  as  you  do. 
Think  it  over.  I  do  not  suppose  that  you  will 
change  your  mind,  but  think  it  over."  Then  he 
rang  for  the  maid  to  put  out  the  lights  and  they 
went  to  bed. 

Meanwhile,  up-stairs  Mr.  Knellwood  was  slowly 
recovering,  and  regretting  the  time  lost  to  his  work. 
While  he  was  very  weak  he  had  ceased  to  think  of 
Katherine  Morrow,  but  as  his  great  frame  was  reclad 
with  flesh  and  he  was  forbidden  to  read,  time  hung 
heavy  on  his  hands,  and  he  felt  the  moral  relaxation 
left  by  serious  illness.  Miss  Kitty,  as  we  have  seen, 
had  material  means  of  keeping  her  too  seductive 
image  in  his  mind.  He  was  for  a  while  as  feeble  to 
resist  or  banish  thought  as  to  control  his  appetite 
for  food.  The  physical  man  was  asserting  himself, 
the  spiritual  being  was  in  abeyance.  His  color  came 
again.  He  recalled  the  cricket-field  and  his  great 
scores.  He  saw  the  grim  battle-fields,  as  he  lay  in 
the  fairyland  between  waking  and  sleep,  and,  half 
ashamed,  knew  again  the  joy  of  danger  when  the 
fighting  chaplain  had  steadied  the  wavering  battle- 
line.  He  stretched  his  gaunt  limbs  and  laughed 
to  find  himself  too  long  for  the  bed.  Again  he 


CIRCUMSTANCE  269 

had  thoughts  he  did  not  wish  to  keep  in  mind,  and 
recalled  what  Archer  had  said  to  the  effect  that  ill- 
ness may  leave  men  in  a  condition  which  for  a  time 
lessens  the  power  to  control  emotion,  or  to  sum- 
marily dismiss  unwelcome  memories.  He  knew,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  surely  regaining  normal  capacity  to 
rule  the  domains  of  mind  and  body.  ^ 

There  was  seeming  truce  in  John  Fairthorne's 
house,  while  from  time  to  time  Mrs.  Hunter  read 
the  business  letters  of  Luke  Pilgrim,  and  tried  to 
forecast  a  dubious  future.  The  people  were  hostile, 
he  wrote.  The  decisions  of  the  courts  were  not  much 
regarded.  Men  were  robbing  the  forests  and  ready 
to  defend  their  ways  with  the  rifle.  He  had  no  idea 
of  returning  just  now  and  had  bought  a  coal  tract 
adjoining  the  land  of  Mr.  Fairthorne.  He  wrote 
very  briefly  and  with  a  certain  caution,  due  to  an- 
other correspondence  with  Mrs.  Swanwick. 

At  last  came  a  letter  asking  frankly  if  he,  Pil- 
grim, should  insist,  in  the  face  of  inimical  feeling, 
upon  running  the  surveyor's  lines.  He  was  pre- 
pared to  go  on  or  to  withdraw  for  the  present, 
until  the  railways  opened  the  country  and  made 
it  worth  while.  His  own  interests  were  small, 
Mr.  Fairthorne's  large.  It  was  a  clear,  practical 
letter. 

This  communication  alarmed  Mr.  Fairthorne.  He 
said  to  Lucretia:  "No,  I  want  him  to  be  careful.  I 
do  not  want  things  pushed.  Please  write  him  to 
that  effect.  Make  it  plain ;  if  he  can  go  on  and  run 
the  lines,  let  him  do  it.  Very  likely  he  overrates  the 
risks.  Now  I  must  lie  down.  No,  I  need  not  see  it. 


270  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Send  it  at  once.  Of  course,  I  do  not  want  my  rights 
ignored. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hunter  sat  long  over  that  letter.  It  tasked 
alike  her  manual  dexterity  and  her  inventive  skill. 
If  she  could  so  state  things  as  to  delay  the  engineer 's 
return  it  was  clear  gain  for  her.  She  wanted  time. 
What  Fairthorne  had  finally  said  enabled  her  to  send 
a  not  entirely  untruthful  statement,  which  was  well 
fitted  to  put  a  brave  man  on  his  mettle.  She  kept 
copies  of  what  Mr.  Fairthorne  was  presumed  to  have 
said,  and  they  lost  no  strength  in  her  rendering. 

The  occasional  letters  which  Luke  Pilgrim  sent  to 
his  old  friends  Harry  and  Margaret  stated  the  situ- 
ation more  gravely. 

"  MY  DEAR  HARRY,"  he  wrote :  "  I  think  every  country  re- 
quires a  vent  for  the  men  whose  talents  during  peace  are  buried 
in  club  reading-rooms  or  drowned  in  whisky  for  lack  of  relief 
to  the  lust  of  battle.  That  is  the  real  value  of  Hindustan  to 
England.  That  is  why  war  will  always  exist.  It  is  a  latent 
disease  and  breaks  out  like  the  plague  under  favoring  condi- 
tions. Mankind  ingeniously  breeds  a  cause,  and  thus  excuses 
the  natural  needs  of  a  nation,  which  are  like  those  of  a  man,  to 
kill  something.  It  is  only  a  generalized  expression  of  the  in- 
stinct which  makes  Tom  Masters  and  quieter  folk  shoot  ducks, 
or  kill  salmon,  or  go  after  grizzlies.  Alas !  for  the  unlucky 
ones  who  are  uselessly  stranded  on  peaceful  days  and  to  whom 
war  was  pastime,  evolution,  and  opportunity.  Ah,  this  is  the 
place  for  them.  It  is  purely  medieval  in  sentiment.  The 
women  despise  a  man  who  cannot  kill.  There  are  fine  middle- 
age  vendettas,  temporarily  abandoned  when  the  community 
turns  out  to  oppose  the  civilization  of  outsiders  who  innocently 
trust  to  title-deeds.  There  are  many  old  Union  men  and  Rebs 
here  and  these  are  with  us.  It  is  the  refuse,  who  were  neutral 
in  the  war,  who  are  the  bad  lot.  I  foresee  a  row,  and  I  hate  it. 
I  have  a  dozen  rifles,  and  am  quietly  training  my  men. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  271 

"  I  wrote  Tom,  before  things  began  to  look  serious,  to  come 
up  here  and  kill  deer  and  bear.  When  I  saw  that  we  were 
soon  to  have  trouble  about  the  boundaries  the  engineers  are 
running,  I  wired  Tom :  '  Do  not  come.  We  are  going  to  have 
mischief.'  I  was  a  fool." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Harry.  "  'Here  's  a 
nice  bone,  little  bulldog,  but  don't  touch  it.'  ' 

"  Tom  replied,  '  So  glad ;  come  at  once.     Hurrah! ' " 

"He  might  have  known  that,"  said  Margaret; 
"go  on." 

"He  came,  and  really,  to  see  that  neat  little  gentleman, 
bored  with  clubs,  and  pigeon-shooting,  and  with  what  he  calls 
the  accursed  certainties  of  modern  life— to  see  him,  suddenly 
alert,  interested,  with  every  faculty  raised  to  the  wth  power— 
and  all  because  of  the  ferment  called  danger !  My  English  has 
got  tangled,  but  you  will  know  what  I  mean,  because  you  re- 
\/  member  the  mad  sixties.  For  you  and  me  the  war  was  a  busi- 
ness of  mere  duty.  For  Tom,  too,  it  was  this,  no  doubt,  but  it 
was  also  more.  He  is  a  born  leader  of  men— one  of  those  rare 
people  in  whom  nearness  to  death-risks  ripens  talent  into 
genius.  He  knew  it  then ;  he  knows  it  now.  But  what  to  do 
with  these  fellows  in  peace  !  I  am  most  glad  to  have  him  and 
tell  him  every  day  to  go  away.  You  should  hear  him  laugh. 
There  is  n't  room  for  a  laugh  like  that  in  towns. 

"  I  have  written  cautiously  to  Mr.  Fairthorne,  for  really  I  do 
not  understand  his  letters.  He  dictates  to  that  queer  secretary 
of  whom  you  speak.  He  hopes  I  will  not  hesitate  to  resist  if 
there  is  trouble  in  making  the  surveys.  '  Force  must  be  met 
with  force,'  and  so  on.  When  I  took  his  final  direction,  he 
said,  '  If  the  lines  cannot  be  run  and  the  mines  peacefully  ex- 
amined, I  personally  do  not  care  to  push  matters.  I  do  not 
need  the  money  and  after  all  the  returns  will  be  remote  and 
the  present  cost  large.'  " 


272  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"There  is  more,"  said  Harry,  "but  the  rest  is 
purely  as  to  those  titles." 

"Read  it,"  she  said.     He  did  so. 

"Ah,  here  is  Mary.  Sit  down.  The  winds  of 
March  have  given  you  a  fine  color.  We  have  been 
reading  a  letter  from  Luke  Pilgrim.  Read  it,  Mary. ' ' 

Madge  returned  to  her  sewing,  and  Harry  lit  his 
pipe.  Both  were  thinking  over  the  risks  run  by 
their  friends.  Mary  took  up  the  letter.  She  had 
once  been  nearer  to  loving  Luke  Pilgrim  than  she 
had  ever  been  to  loving  any  other  man.  He  was, 
on  one  side,  a  highly  educated  man,  eminent  and 
original  in  his  profession — in  fact,  an  engineer  of 
unusual  powers ;  on  his  other  side,  he  was  fond  of 
the  mystical,  sensitive,  imaginative,  without  distinct 
creed  or  definite  religion ;  a  tender  man,  also — a  man 
people  trusted  on  sight. 

Mary  reflected  as  she  saw  the  familiar  back-hand : 
' '  How  near  I  was  to  it !  But  knowing  that  ended  it. ' ' 

"Well,  Madge,"  she  said,  "how  does  it  strike 
you  ? ' ' 

"It  appears  to  me  plain ;  I  think  Mr.  Pilgrim  may 
have  misunderstood  uncle's  letters;  but  one  likes  to 
see  the  text  when  statements  as  contradictory  are 
made. ' ' 

"Meanwhile,"  said  Harry,  "there  are  two  good 
fellows  put  in  danger  that  an  old  man  may  add  to 
an  estate  already  beyond  his  needs.  I  suppose  he 
wrote  in  one  of  his  irritable  moods." 

"No,"  said  Mary.  "I  am  surprised,  Madge,  that 
you  do  not  see  that  my  uncle  never  could  have  dic- 
tated  the  part  about  using  force.  For  one  of  us,  for 


CIRCUMSTANCE  273 

a  Fairthorne,  he  is  strangely  timid.  Do  you  recall 
his  state  of  mind  during  the  strike  last  year?  He 
would  have  had  the  railroad  yield  every  point.  No ; 
Mrs.  Hunter's  hand  is  in  that  letter." 

"But  why?"  said  Madge.  "One  must  have  a 
motive.  It  is  not  reasonable.  The  woman  is  not  a 
fool." 

"That  is  what  she  is  occasionally.  I  sometimes 
think  that,  like  Tom  Masters,  she  fights  for  the  love 
of  fighting." 

"That  seems  to  me  a  little  absurd,"  said  Harry. 

"No,"  she  insisted.  "Mrs.  Hunter  is  there  in 
that  letter.  Why  she  wrote  all  that  I  do  not  know. ' ' 

"My  dear  Mary,  your  imagination  does  sometimes 
\/  carry  you  beyond  the  boundaries  of  proof,"  said 
Madge. 

' '  Good  gracious !  You  dear  little  logician !  What 
else  is  it  for?  I  should  like  to  show  this  letter  to 
uncle,  but  I  believe  that  it  would  be  useless. ' ' 

"Let  us  wait  a  little,"  said  Mrs.  Swan  wick. 
Harry,  as  usual,  acquiesced  in  her  view  of  the  mat- 
ter. Mary  shook  her  head  in  dissent.  She  thought 
that  her  uncle  ought  to  see  this  letter  at  once,  but  as 
Harry  sided  with  his  wife  she  unwillingly  ceased  to" 
urge  the  matter.  Presently  Madge  asked  what  had 
become  of  Kitty. 

"You  must  inquire  of  our  dear  Lucretia,"  said 
Mary.  "They  seem  to  be  largely  engaged  in  attend- 
ing to  the  physical  wants  of  their  spiritual  director." 

"Indeed,  Mary,  that  is  too  true.  Kitty  is  a  source 
of  some  amusement  to  the  young  man  I  am  polish- 
ing. Miss  Letitia  is  in  a  state  of  chronic  disgust. 

18 


274  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Kitty  is  being  gossiped  over  as  none  of  us  ever  have 
been.  She  really  kept  Mr.  Blount  a  half-hour  last 
Sunday  while  she  asked  all  kinds  of  questions  about 
Mr.  Knellwood.  It  was  like  poor  Kit's  small  cun- 
ning to  think  that  the  'country-bred  lout'  (that  is 
Kitty's,  not  mine)  would  not  suspect.  In  reality, 
he  is  what  Mr.  Pilgrim  described  as  'too  ingeniously 
inferential.'  Blount  said  it  did  seem  as  if  Miss 
Morrow  and  Mr.  Knellwood  'must  have  been  keep- 
ing  company.'  Don't  look  so  shocked.  It  was  his 
way  of  saying  what  we  should  put  some  other 
way. ' ' 

"Don't  laugh,  Madge,"  returned  Mary.  "It  is 
too  dreadful,  too  humiliating.  What  could  you— 
what  did  you  say  ? ' ' 

"Say,  dear?  There  is  a  refuse-heap  in  a  corner 
of  that  young  man's  mind  into  which  I  am  sweeping 
a  fine  collection  of  these  country  phrases.  Wait  a 
little,  and  see  what  I  shall  make  of  him.  Let  us 
thank  God  that  Mr.  Knellwood  is  a  gentleman,  and 
for  his  own  sake  a  celibate." 

"Well  that  is  small  comfort.  Are  there  other 
letters,  Harry?" 

"Yes,  one  other — no,  two.  Pilgrim  says  that, 
being  in  some  doubt,  he  wrote  to  uncle  more  freely, 
and  that  uncle  was  in  return  even  more  positive  that 
Mr.  Pilgrim  was  right  as  to  his  determination  to  have 
the  lines  run  and  his  legal  rights  enforced." 

"It  is  all  very  strange,"  said  Mary. 

"Here,"  rejoined  Madge,  "is  a  letter  from  Tom 
Masters  to  Harry.  I  have  not  heard  it.  Head  it  to 
us,  Harry." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  275 

"  DEAR  HARRY  :  Pilgrim  kindly  wired  me  that  there  was  a 
small  war  on.  A  man  brought  the  telegram  out  to  my  boat. 
I  was  in  Tampa  Bay,  and  fast  to  a  tarpon.  I  cut  the  line, 
came  in,  got  a  sloop  up  the  coast,  and  so  across  country  on  a 
horse  to  the  rail,  baggage  to  follow.  We  may  get  off  without 
a  fight,  but  these  fellows  want  it.  They  are  fools  enough  to 
think  it  will  end  this  matter  of  boundaries ;  as  yet  we  have  had 
no  serious  difficulties.  Meanwhile,  the  people  are  rude  and 
hostile,  and  for  fear  of  what  may  come  I  am  giving  the  young 
engineers  a  few  lessons  as  to  how  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
By  Mars  !  they  need  it.  Luke  is  engaged  in  diplomatic  efforts 
at  some  kind  of  compromise ;  it  won't  work ;  the  trouble  is  the 
squatters  and  their  women.  One  of  them  told  me  to-day  I 
was  '  a  nice  little  man/  and  her  Bill  would  fetch  me  home  to  be 
'  a  doll  for  the  children.'  She  was  a  handsome  devil.  I  said 
Bill  would  never  get  near  enough.  I  put  up  my  rifle,  barked  a 
gray  squirrel  on  the  top  of  a  big  papaw-tree,  and  said,  '  Take 
that  to  the  children,  and  let  me  off.'  She  '  guessed  I  could 
shoot,'  but  that  the  squirrel  '  did  n't  have  no  rifle.'  I  said  I  had 
been  shot  at  a  good  deal,  and  that  I  had  a  charm  and  could  n't 
be  hit.  By  Jove  !  I  think  she  believed  me. 

"My  worst  trouble  is  with  Luke.  He  wanders  about  in  the 
hills  alone,  cracking  rocks  with  his  hammer.  If  things  get 
worse  here,  some  one  will  shoot  him.  When  he  gets  away  from 
the  engineer  party  I  am  all  the  time  uneasy.  Next  week  the 
lines  will  be  run  through  Bill's  farm.  Then  look  out ! 

"I  am  very  well  and  enjoying  myself.     Send  me  down  the 
last-pattern  Winchester,  45-caliber,  and  two  hundred  cartridges. 
"  Yours  as  long  as  I  last, 

"  TH.  MASTERS. 

"P.  S.  Some  fool  shot  at  Luke  yesterday  evening.  It  was, 
we  think,  a  woman.  What  could  one  do  against  a  brigade  of 
petticoats?  The  sex  down  here  is  well  advanced.  I  see  in  the 
papers  one  or  two  rather  disquieting  things  about  the  Republic 
Trust  Co.  I  suppose  so  long  as  John  Fairthorne  is  satisfied  I 
may  be.  I  got  out  of  it.  I  wonder  has  he  soldi 

"  Yrs., 

"  T    M  n 


276  CIRCUMSTANCE 

They  agreed  that  it  was  very  confusing. 

Late  that  evening  Archer  came  into  Swanwick's, 
as  was  his  frequent  habit,  to  smoke  his  only  cigar  of 
the  day  before  bedtime.  Mr.  Swanwick  was  out. 

' '  Sit  down, ' '  said  Margaret ;  ' '  you  look  tired. ' ' 

' '  I  am  more  weary  than  tired.  I  had  an  annoying 
bout  with  Mrs.  Hunter  this  morning;  my  out-clinic, 
which  I  like  to  run  myself  when  I  have  time,  was 
unsatisfactory — just  a  series  of  cases  of  the  poor 
needing  all  kind  of  things  which  no  man  can  give, 
or  else  hopeless  incurables.  And  then  I  had  to  dis- 
charge from  the  wards  three  honest  mechanics. 
They  are  well,  but  yet  weak,  stranded,  penniless." 

"How  can  that  be  helped?" 

"Helped?"  he  said.  "Ask  the  rich.  Everyman 
discharged  from  a  jail  is  cared  for,  but  the  man  who 
leaves  a  hospital,  who  cares  for  him?  Sometimes  it 
saps  one's  faith  to  see  so  much  misery  you  cannot 
help." 

"It  must  be  trying  in  many  ways." 

"Yes;  if  a  man  wants  to  have  his  manners,  his  pa- 
tience, and  his  charity  tested  I  advise  a  heavy  out- 
service  for  the  poor.  There  are  days  when  every- 
thing goes  wrong." 

"I  know,"  laughed  Madge. 

"As  if  to  complete  things,  old  Soper  stopped  me 
at  the  foot  of  your  steps  just  a  moment  to  describe 
an  interesting  case.  It  took  ten  minutes.  At  last 
he  said  he  was  in  a  hurry,  and  had  to  go  at  once  to 
see  Mr.  Jackson.  Then  he  reported  a  Mr.  Thurston  's 
case  at  length,  as  if  insomnia  was  as  rare  as  Morvan  's 
disease." 


CIECUMSTANCE  277 

"What  is  that?" 

"Pardon  me,  that  is  shop.  You  do  not  know  his 
variety,  the  Bore  Medical.  He  said  at  last  he  might 
have  to  ask  my  counsel.  He  never  will.  And  Thur- 
ston  's  brother-in-law  was  ill,  quite  a  remarkable  case, 
and  so  on." 

"Are  not  both  of  them  officers  of  Harry's  com- 
pany, the  Republic  Trust  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Swan  wick. 

"Are  they?  I  might  have  regaled  him  in  turn 
with  the  fact  that  two  of  Thurston's  directors  are 
out  of  sorts.  That  might  have  seemed  even  more 
remarkable.  The  coincidence  is  a  little  queer,  though. 
May  I  have  some  whisky  and  soda?  Let  us  talk  of 
pleasanter  things.  You  will  admit  that  I  never  talk 
shop." 

"No,  not  enough.  I  like  it.  I  mean  intelligent, 
impersonal  shop. ' ' 

"That  is  all  well  enough  for  you,  who  are  only  a 
rare  customer.  I  like  at  times  to  put  up  the  shut- 
ters. If  I  am  tired  of  it — oh,  very  tired — I  get  my 
fly-books  out.  They  are  'big  medicine.'  ' 

They  talked  of  the  children  or  of  books  until  Harry 
Swanwiek  came  in  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"I  found  a  boy,  Madge,  ringing  as  if  he  would 
pull  the  bell  out.  I  pulled  his  ear,  and  that  stopped 
him. ' ' 

' '  I  sent  the  servants  to  bed, ' '  she  said. 

' '  Well,  shall  we  guess  what  it  is  about  ? "  He  held 
up  the  yellow  missive. 

' '  Open  it,  Harry ;  I  have  never  yet  become  used  to 
them."  He  obeyed. 

"Oh,  Madge! 


278  CIRCUMSTANCE 

" '  Luke  Pilgrim  has  been  badly  wounded.  Send  Archer  down 
at  once.  See  letter.  Will  wire  again.' " 

"How  dreadful!" 

"Get  me  the  evening  paper,"  said  Archer,  rising. 
He  looked  it  over  in  haste,  and  then  at  the  clock. 

"I  can  catch  the  twelve  through  train  from  New 
York.  I  have  just  time  and  no  more.  I  shall  have 
to  lie  over  in  Baltimore.  I  will  write  and  settle  my 
own  affairs  from  there.  Give  me  some  money, 
Harry.  Thank  you ;  good-bye. ' ' 

They  went  down  to  the  door  with  him. 

"You  will  be  careful  about  yourself,"  said  the 
little  lady.  ' '  You  know  how  much  we  care  for  you. ' ' 

"Oh,  they  don't  shoot  doctors,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"I  shall  be  friends  with  every  scamp  of  them  in  a 
week,  and  doctor  all  the  children.  Good-bye." 

"Don't  cry,  dear,"  Harry  said,  for  Luke  Pilgrim 
was  the  friend  of  many  years,  and  to  be  the  friend  of 
this  house  meant  more  than  the  word  friend  com- 
monly implies. 

They  talked  long  of  Pilgrim  and  how  soon  they 
might  hope  to  hear.  Just  before  Madge  went  up- 
stairs, she  said : 

"There  is  one  other  thing,  Harry,  that  I  ought  to 
say,  and  it  is  of  moment.  Uncle  John,  who  lives  in 
a  world  of  his  own,  holds  a  very  large  amount  of 
Republic  stock.  If  he  relies  on  any  one,  it  is  on 
you." 

' '  Well,  dear  ?    You  look  serious. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  am  serious  enough,  and  when  I  explain 
myself  you  will  very  likely  laugh  at  me." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  279 

"I  never  laugh  at  you."    It  was  true. 

"Then  I  will  tell  you.  Mr.  Grace  has  resigned; 
the  president  can't  sleep,"  and  she  related  the  doc- 
tor's talk;  "the  vice-president  is  ill  and  two  direc- 
tors. Put  it  all  together  and  you  will  see." 

"But  Grace  continues  to  hold  his  own  stock." 

"My  dear  boy,  cannot  you  see  it?  Here  are  four 
directors  ill.  Mr.  Grace  may  have  good  reasons  for 
not  selling. ' ' 

' '  And  your  uncle  ? ' ' 

"He  should  at  least  be  warned." 

"I  will  talk  to  him,  but  your  reasons  are  rather 
queer. ' ' 

"No;  and,  Harry,  you  are  still  their  counsel. 
There  is  something  wrong,  or  else  they  would  never 
secretly  consult  another  lawyer." 

He  said  in  reply  that  it  still  paid  him  well;  how 
would  it  do  to  consult  Grace  about  resigning? 
Madge  said : ' '  Perhaps.  Let  us  think  it  over  to-mor- 
row." She  stood  still  a  moment,  reflecting.  Mr. 
Grace  might  or  might  not  be  willing  to  advise  on 
either  question,  and  meanwhile  Harry,  with  his  occa- 
sional difficulty  in  coming  to  a  decision,  might  delay 
too  long  to  advise  her  uncle.  She  saw  it  all  very 
clearly,  and  the  possible  disadvantage  of  repre- 
senting as  counsel  a  company  within  the  risk  of  a 
discreditable  failure.  She  had  seen  in  the  papers 
comments  as  to  the  fluctuations  in  the  price  of  an 
unnamed  trust  stock  and  knew  very  well  that  this 
implied  doubt  and  suspicion.  She  wanted  her  uncle 
made  safe,  but  she  was  far  more  sensitive  as  to  the 
fair  name  of  Jack's  father. 


280  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"He  shall  make  uncle  sell  and  he  shall  resign," 
she  said  to  herself.  Then  she  turned  from  it.  She 
had  settled  the  matter,  and  was  equally  ready  to 
deal  with  the  case  of  the  unlucky  engineer. 

"As  soon  as  he  can  travel,  Harry,  we  must  have 
Luke  Pilgrim  here.  He  could  have  your  room,  and 
you  might  use  the  hall  room?" 

"My  dear,"  he  cried,  "it  may  be  weeks,  and  God 
knows  what  we  may  hear  to-morrow. ' ' 

Like  most  women  who  have  the  logically  gifted 
mind,  Madge  was  not  apt  to  hurt  herself  with  antici- 
pation of  disaster. 


XXIX 

HE  next  day  Harry  Swanwick  left  his 
wife  and  the  children  at  breakfast,  and 
went  out  earlier  than  usual,  intending 
to  see  Mr.  Fairthorne  before  he  went 
to  his  own  office.  He  met  Roger  Grace 
at  the  corner  of  Broad  Street,  and  wondered  what 
brought  the  banker  up-town  at  so  early  an  hour. 
Grace  said,  as  they  shook  hands:  "I  was  on  my 
way  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  I  think  I 
shall  enjoy  the  dining-club.  The  list  of  members 
seems  attractive.  I  meant  to  write  to  you,  but  I  like 
better  to  speak  my  thanks."  He  was  very  much 
pleased.  ' '  What  good  friends  you  are ! ' ' 
"We  try  to  be." 

"If  Mrs.  Swanwick  will  see  me  thus  early,  I  have 
something  for  her. ' ' 

"She  will  if  you  make  the  servant  take  your  card 
to  her.     We  had  bad  news  last  night.     I  am  on  my 
way  to  tell  Mr.   Fairthorne."     Then  he  went   on 
briefly  to  relate  what  had  happened,  and  to  add  that 
Archer  thought  Mr.  Knellwood  might  not  now  re- 
quire a  physician,  as  he  was  sitting  up,  but  would 
write  and  advise  whom  to  send  for  in  case  of  need. 
Grace  said  he  would  tell  him.     The  banker  did  not 
know  Pilgrim,  but  he  clearly  understood  the  situ- 
281 


282  CIRCUMSTANCE 

ation  in  West  Virginia,  and  thought  it  would  have 
been  wiser  to  have  delayed  active  operations  until 
the  new  railroad  opened  the  country. 

When  Margaret  came  down  to  meet  him,  he  said : 
"I  have  brought  you  a  little  money  for  the  home. 
We  wound  up  a  rather  prosperous  real-estate  trans- 
action yesterday.  I  made  two  old  fellows  who  never 
give  anything  to  anything  open  their  purses.  They 
tried  hard  to  get  out  of  it,  but  it  was  hard  to  refuse 
a  man  who  had  made  a  lot  of  money  for  them. ' ' 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  as  she  thanked  him,  ''that 
some  men  have  to  learn  to  give.  It  is  an  education, 
and  at  last  a  pleasure." 

"Yes;  to  be  frank,  at  first  I  found  it  difficult  to 
break  too  economic  habits,  when  economy  ceased  to 
be  needed.  The  habit  of  useless  accumulation  is  not 
easy  to  shake  off.  Your  uncle  is  interesting  to  me 
about  that.  He  gives  in  large  sums,  and  never  in  the 
way  of  small  helpings  to  people  in  real  need.  Knell- 
wood  says  if  he  asks  aid  for  an  individual  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne  invariably  says  no,  and  yet  he  likes  Mr.  Knell- 
wood — why,  I  cannot  imagine.  No  two  men  could  be 
further  apart  in  all  ways." 

Madge  knew  very  well  but  held  her  tongue,  and 
contented  herself  with  saying  that  her  uncle's  likes 
and  dislikes  were  past  comprehending,  and  then 
asked:  "But  why  do  you  yourself  like  him?"  for 
she  was  really  curious.  Grace  smiled. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  ask.  How  rarely  one  puts 
that  question  to  one's  self!  I  like  Knell  wood  for 
his  utter  disregai-d  for  money,  for  his  entire  hon- 
esty of  purpose,  and  because— you  will  laugh— be- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  283 

cause  of  his  completeness  of  self-control.     Here  is  a  ^ 
great  big  man,   built   for  battle,   for  field   sports.      M 
Every  bit  of  him  must  hunger  for  action,  and  yet, 
because  he  has  certain  absurd  beliefs,  he  lives  an 
ascetic  life,  starves  himself  to  feed  the  poor,  and 
fusses  over  ceremonial  trifles." 

"I  can  comprehend  all  that,  but  cannot  yet  see 
why  you  like  him.  I  do  not.  Respect  does  not  in- 
sure affection." 

"I  fancy,  Mrs.  Swan  wick,  that  to  like  him  you 
must  know  him  well.  Back  of  all  his  nonsense  is  a 
kind  of  sweet  goodness,  something  one  could  trust  in 
time  of  trial.  If  ever  I  wanted  to  confess  to  a  man 
I  should  choose  Knellwood." 

Madge  looked  up  at  the  strongly  marked  face,  with 
its  look  of  power,  and  felt  that  there  was  an  ele- 
ment of  the  comic  in  the  idea  of  this  man's  confess- 
ing to  the  narrow-minded  priest  of  St.  Agnes. 

"I  ought  to  feel  answered,  Mr.  Grace,  but  I  do 
not.  Let  us  drop  him.  I  want  to  ask  you — may  I 
say  as  a  friend? — a  grave  question.  I  will  not  go 
into  my  reasons  for  it.  Do  you  not  think  my  hus- 
band ought  to  resign  from  his  position  as  counsel  of 
the  Republic  Trust  Company?" 

The  banker  was  somewhat  startled.  He  had  been 
hearing  quite  too  much  of  that  company  in  the  inner 
circles  of  finance. 

"Mrs.  Swan  wick,  I  do  not  like  their  ways.  I  hold 
a  large  amount  of  their  stock,  and  I  shall  continue 
to  hold  it  for  reasons  needless  to  discuss.  I  do  not 
think  it  will  go  to  the  wall,  and  I  am  now  endeavor- 
ing to  sustain  it  in  case  of  need.  If  the  present  state 


284  CIRCUMSTANCE 

of  things  gets  worse,  that  and  some  other  institu- 
tions may  break  or  will  need  assistance.  Frankly 
speaking,  I  believe  that  in  case  of  disaster  its  man- 
agement would  be  savagely  blamed. ' ' 
"And  Harry?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 
"Oh,  he  is  as  much  outside  of  their  affairs  as  I 
—oh,  even  more  so,  but  no  matter.  To  answer  you, 
yes ;  on  the  whole,  he  had  better  let  it  go.  Tell  him 
to  resign  quietly,  and  tell  him  too  that  this  is  all 
in  absolute  confidence.  I  meant  to  advise  him  to 
resign." 

"Will  you?"  she  said,  quickly.  "I  should  pre- 
fer that." 

"I  will.  I  will  write  to  him  within  an  hour." 
"My  uncle  is  a  large  stock-holder.  Should  Harry 
advise  him  to  sell  out  ? ' '  The  banker  did  not  like  it. 
He  had  urged  Fairthorne  not  to  sell.  Between  them 
they  held  a  fourth  of  the  stock.  Since  then  things 
were,  as  he  knew,  going  from  bad  to  worse,  but  a 
large  sale  would  precipitate  trouble  and  the  horizon 
was  already  darkening. 

"Mrs.  Swan  wick,"  he  said,  "I  long  ago  advised 
your  uncle  about  his  stock.  In  an  interview  which 
he  sought,  I  offered  to  take  it  off  his  hands  in  such 
a  way  as  not  to  disturb  confidence  and  yet  insure 
him  against  serious  loss.  The  offer  was  not  unsel- 
fish. I  hold  to  it.  I  will  say  all  this  to  your  hus- 
band, but  I  do  not  believe  Mr.  Fairthorne  will  sell 
to  me  or  to  any  one. ' ' 

/       "Thank  you.     I  am  out  of  it  altogether.     It  is 

really  not  a  woman's  business— not  mine,  at  least." 

"I  will  see  Mr.  Swanwick."    He  was  beginning 


CIRCUMSTANCE  286 

to  comprehend  how  much  of  the  good  sense  and  effi- 
ciency of  Harry  was  due  to  the  female  member  of 
the  firm. 

As  he  rose  she  opened  the  envelope  he  had  given. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Grace!     You  were  hard  on  them." 

"It  will  do  them  good,"  he  said,  laughing,  and, 
after  a  few  words  about  Pilgrim,  went  away. 

Harry  Swanwick  found  that  Mr.  Fairthorne  was 
still  abed.  Desiring  to  see  him  in  person,  he  decided 
to  return  later  in  the  day.  At  his  office  he  met  a 
clerk  who  said  he  had  been  charged  by  the  banker 
to  place  a  letter  in  his  hands.  There  was  no  answer, 
he  thought.  Harry  read  it. 

' '  No, ' '  he  said, ' '  there  is  no  answer.  You  may  say 
that  I  will  call  at  eleven." 

At  that  hour  he  had  a  talk  with  Grace,  who  said 
to  him  finally : 

"On  no  account  must  Mr.  Fairthorne  throw  his 
stock  on  the  market.  At  any  time  I  will  take  it  at 
par."  Then  the  banker  advised  him  to  resign  as 
counsel. 

He  went  to  his  office,  wrote  resigning  his  place 
as  official  counsel  to  the  Trust,  and  gave  no  expla- 
nation. When,  after  the  directors'  meeting  that 
week,  it  was  simply  accepted,  he  said  to  Madge:  "I 
think  they  might  have  said  a  decent  word  of  regret, 
or,  as  is  usual,  requested  me  to  reconsider  it."  He 
was  a  little  annoyed. 

"No,  no,  Harry;  you  were  an  embarrassment.  I 
am  glad  you  saw  your  way  to  take  Mr.  Grace's 
advice." 

When  Harry  left  Grace's  office  he  went  to  Mr. 


286  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Fairthorne's  house,  and  was  shown  into  the  library. 
The  unavoidable  Mrs.  Hunter  was  busy  at  one  table, 
with  the  cat  Felisa  in  her  lap.  Mr.  Fairthorne,  who 
was  near-sighted  and  never  wore  glasses,  was  hold- 
ing a  book  on  surnames  as  close  as  the  Fairthorne 
nose  permitted. 

"Good  morning,  Uncle  John.  How  are  you,  Mrs. 
Hunter?" 

Mr.  Fairthorne  looked  up.  "Oh,  how  are  you! 
Fine  March  weather." 

"I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  a  few  minutes." 

"Well,  talk." 

"I  wish  to  see  you  alone." 

Mrs.  Hunter  rose  and  went  out.  Harry  shut  the 
door. 

"There  has  been  trouble  at  the  mines.  Pilgrim 
has  been  shot,  and  I  fear  is  dangerously  wounded. 
Tom  Masters  is  there  and  wired  us  bast  night. 
Archer  went  South  by  the  night  train.  I  hope  to 
hear  by  letter  to-night. ' ' 

"Very  bad — very  bad,  indeed!"  said  Fairthorne. 
"Don't  see  through  it.  I  wrote  to  Pilgrim  not  to 
,  get  into  trouble  about  squatters.  Until  the  court  de- 
cided I  could  very  well  wait." 

"I  thought  you  were  anxious,  sir,  to  run  the  lines 
and  open  the  mines ;  at  least,  so  far  as  to  decide  on 
their  value." 

"Nonsense!  I  wrote  nothing  of  the  kind.  I 
^/ wanted  Pilgrim  to  look  it  all  over  and  report.  I 
gave  no  orders  to  push  things." 

Harry  was  naturally  puzzled  as  he  recalled  Pil- 
grim's letters.  He  knew  Mr.  Fairthorne's  memory 


CIRCUMSTANCE  287 

had  been  failing,  and  yet  he  seemed  just  now  to  be 
both  clear  and  confident. 

"I  want  Mrs.  Hunter."  He  rang  his  table  bell. 
When  the  secretary  returned  he  said  at  first  no  word 
except  as  to  what  interested  him  most,  his  own 
accuracy. 

"Have  you  copies  of  my  letters  to  Mr.  Pilgrim?" 

She  said  she  had,  but  somehow  the  letter-book  could 
not  be  found.  Mrs.  Hunter  explained  that  besides 
the  daily  care  of  the  room  Miss  Mary  insisted  on  a 
more  serious  weekly  dusting.  It  had  just  taken 
place. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said;  "it  must  be  found." 
He  would  have  blamed  any  one  else,  but  Mrs.  Hunter 
he  never  blamed. 

' '  Find  it  to-morrow,  Harry.  Some  mistake.  Yes, 
I  will  write  to-day  and  set  it  all  straight.  They 
must  all  come  away.  I  do  not  suppose  it  is  very 
bad.  Let  me  hear  when  you  get  your  letters.  You 
said  Archer  had  gone  down  to  take  care  of  him? 
And  now  I  am  left  without  a  doctor. ' ' 

"May  I  ask,"  said  the  secretary,  rising  up  from 
unrewarded  search,  "may  I  ask  what  is  wrong? 
What  has  happened?" 

' '  Happened  ?  Everything  has  happened.  Archer 
has  gone  off  and  left  me  without  a  word.  It  is  most 
inconsiderate." 

"But  what  has  happened?" 

"What  has  happened,"  said  Swanwick,  "is  that 
Mr.  Fairthorne's  wishes  have  been  misunderstood, 
and  that  there  has  been  serious  trouble  with  squat- 
ters. Mr.  Pilgrim  has  been  shot." 


288  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Good  heavens!"  She  sat  down  as  she  spoke. 
' '  Not  dangerously,  I  hope  ? "  If  ever  she  lied  it  was 
\/  then.  Her  command  of  her  features  was  entire,  and 
yet  never  in  all  her  life  had  she  been  so  disturbed. 

Harry  replied  that  as  yet  they  had  no  particu- 
lars. Mrs.  Hunter,  eager  to  get  away,  asked  if  she 
were  still  needed.  On  the  stairs  she  paused  and 
stood  still,  deep  in  thought. 

"I  would  have  fought  it  out,"  she  murmured. 
"Now  there  will  be  time  and  to  spare — to  spare,  and 
perhaps— perhaps —  She  turned  and  went  up- 
stairs slowly,  heavy-footed  with  thought.  She  would 
,v  be  free  for  a  time  from  a  great  fear  and  have 
leisure  to  do  something  more  than  merely  to  secure 
a  temporary  home.  She  sat  down  by  the  window 
and  watched  Felisa,  who  was  in  the  garden  playing 
tiger  in  the  jungles  of  dead  flower-stems. 

"Ah!  That  will  do,"  she  murmured  at  last. 
"Yes,  that  will  do;  but  there  is  no  hurry,  and  now 
I  shall  get  even  with  that  sharp-eyed  doctor.  De- 
cidedly we  shall  want  another  physician."  The 
chance  of  annoying  a  man  who  had  ventured  to  op- 
pose her  so  pleased  Lucretia  that  her  face  lighted  up 
with  an  evil  smile.  "He  won't  like  it." 

While  she  was  seeing  her  way  through  her  game, 
Harry  was  discussing  the  affairs  of  the  Republic 
Trust.  He  spoke  with  the  utmost  caution,  but  re- 
peated Grace's  offer,  and  also  the  banker's  request 
not  to  sell  in  open  market. 

Fairthorne  returned:  "I  do  not  think  it  is  any 
one's  business  but  my  own,  nor  why  this  damned 
dollar-lord  should  dictate."  Evidently,  as  happened 


CIRCUMSTANCE  289 

when  anything  excited  the  old  man,  he  was  becoming 
testy  and  unable  to  use  the  power  to  think  reason- 
ably on  matters  of  business  which  he  still  retained 
in  calmer  moments. 

"You  may  tell  him  I  am  not  to  be  made  the  fool 
of  any  broker's  ring." 

' '  I  shall  tell  him  nothing  of  the  kind,  sir ;  and  you 
must  not  say  this  sort  of  thing  to  me.  Roger  Grace 
is  my  friend.  I  won 't  stand  it. " 

Again,  as  usual,  Fairthorne  took  refuge  in  his 
feebleness. 

' '  I  am  too  weak  for  these  discussions.  My  temper 
won't  bear  it." 

"So  I  perceive.  I  came  here  to  do  you  a  service, 
and  you  thank  me  by  insulting  me. ' ' 

"Is  n't  that  rather  strong  language  to  use  to  an 
old  man?  But  no  one  respects  anything  or  anybody 
nowadays.  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  say  I  am 
sorry.  I  am  not,  but  I  apologize. ' ' 

"That  is  quite  sufficient,"  said  Harry,  shortly. 
' '  I  will  send  you  whatever  news  I  get. ' ' 

Fairthorne  was  easily  beaten.  He  was  not  very 
much  afraid  of  Harry,  but  he  had  a  wholesome  dread 
of  Mary,  who  was  unrestrained  by  any  terrors  of 
the  use  he  might  make  of  that  deadly  weapon,  an  / 
old  man's  will.  He  had,  too,  a  minor  dread  of  Mar- 
garet's way  of  gaily  putting  him  right.  Moreover, 
as  he  well  knew,  any  slight  to  her  husband  she  never 
pardoned.  Her  mode  of  punishment  consisted  in 
keeping  Jack  away,  and  as  Fairthorne  was  proud  of 
his  namesake  he  was  never  long  in  coming  to  terms 
when  deprived  of  Jack's  society.  The  cat  was  less 

19 


290  CIRCUMSTANCE 

fond  of  Jack,  and  Mrs.  Hunter  stuffed  the  boy  with 
bonbons,  to  Margaret's  horror. 

The  letter-book  was  lost  until  other  matters  caused 
Fairthorne  to  forget  it.  The  day  after  the  coming 
of  the  telegram  which  disturbed  so  many  people,  a 
letter  arrived  from  Tom  Masters.  It  ran  thus : 


"DEAR  HARRY:  I  inclose  a  simple  statement  of  what  hap- 
pened, and  of  Luke's  condition,  and,  not  to  keep  you  in  doubt, 
I  may  say  that  he  is  doing  well. 

"  Pilgrim  came  down  with  orders  from  your  uncle  to  run  the 
boundaries  of  his  lands,  test  the  outcrop  of  coal,  and  to  avoid, 
at  present,  collision  with  squatters.  Later  Mr.  Fairthorne  wrote 
very  positively  that  the  boundaries  were  to  be  run  and  blazed, 
and  his  lines  established,  whether  the  squatters  liked  it  or  not. 
Pilgrim  swore  he  would  obey  orders,  and  got  together  a  lot  of 
ex-Confederate  engineers.  It  was  a  foolish  business.  The  wood 
losses  are  really  small,  and  the  mines  are  useless  until  the  rail- 
ways get  in. 

"Pretty  soon  these  fellows  began  to  think  their  wretched 
little  clearings  in  peril.  They  threatened,  and  Pilgrim  went  on 
in  his  grim  New  England  way.  Then  I  came  up  and  saw  what 
we  had  to  expect.  Luke  said  he  was  sent  there  to  study  the 
coal  and  run  those  boundary  lines ;  he  meant  to  do  both.  I 
set  to  work  to  take  care  of  him.  Two  days  ago  a  man  named 
Springer  came  down  to  our  camp  and  said  no  man  should  run 
lines  over  his  farm.  Pilgrim  talked  to  him;  it  was  useless. 
Next  day  I  made  half  of  the  engineers  take  their  rifles,  and 
went  with  them  myself. 

"  When  we  got  on  to  the  clearing,  Pilgrim,  who  would  not 
arm  himself,  walked  toward  the  house.  I  was  fifty  yards  be- 
hind and  well  to  left.  He  called  to  the  men  to  wait  a  bit,  that 
he  must  talk  to  Springer.  As  he  spoke,  the  man,  who  was 
out  of  my  sight,  within  his  doorway,  fired,  and  Luke  went 
down  with  a  ball  through  his  right  lung.  Several  of  our  men 
fired  into  the  doorway.  Being  at  one  side  I  saw  Springer  run 
out  back  of  the  house.  As  he  climbed  over  the  snake  fence  I 


CIRCUMSTANCE  291 

fired.  I  am  glad  now  I  did  not  kill  him.  Queerly  enough,  my 
Winchester  ball  went  through  his  right  lung  from  back  to  front. 
It  was  good  Hebrew  justice— eye  for  eye— except  that  Pilgrim 
was  hit  by  the  smaller  bullet.  When  Springer  crumpled  and 
fell,  I  ran  up  and  took  his  rifle.  It  was  a  long-barreled  old- 
time  piece,  a  muzzle-loader. 

"  Pilgrim  is  doing  well,  and  Springer  is  likely  to  die.  I  am 
anxiously  waiting  for  Archer,  for  certainly  both  men  are  in 
peril.  Springer's  wife  is  comically  suspicious  because  I  want 
the  rascal  to  get  well.  This  is  not  the  custom  of  battle  here. 
I  cut  out  my  bullet  with  a  penknife.  It  was  just  under  the 
skin.  Springer,  half  dead,  cursed  me,  but  they  had  to  hold  the 
man's  wife.  I  am  the  third  man  in  danger,  and  I  am  advised 
of  several  doctors  learned  in  the  law  and  practice  of  the  ven- 
detta, to  seek  a  more  wholesome  climate.  Mr.  Springer's  sons, 
set.  sixteen  and  eighteen,  are  in  the  mountains  with  guns. 
Mrs.  Springer  assures  me  that  they  will  '  git  me  for  certin, 
specially  Bill.'  Between  nursing  Pilgrim  and  fussing  over 
Springer  and  running  the  lines  through  his  farm,  I  am  well 
occupied.  Those  boys  bother  me.  Calf  game  is  not  to  my 
taste. 

"  Meanwhile  I  am  more  alive  than  I  have  been  since  that 
mournful  day  at  Appomattox,  when  I  felt  worse  than  Robert 
Lee.  I  fell  out  of  the  only  business  on  earth  for  which  I  am 
fit.  Tell  Jack  we  will  come  here  some  day  and  camp  in  the 
yew-pines  and  kill  bears.  I  never  forget  that  I  am  his  god- 
father. It  is  an  awful  responsibility.  My  love  to  his  mother. 
Pilgrim  sends  his  something  or  other— it  was  not  very  clear. 
I  think  he  is  going  to  pull  through.  There  is,  in  my  rooms,  a 
double-barrel  express-rifle.  Send  it  down  to  me  in  a  box,  and 
label  it '  fishing-rods '  or  '  tracts.'  " 

Harry  Swan  wick  left  a  note  at  John  Fairthorne's 
to  the  effect  that  Pilgrim  was  doing  well,  and  went 
home  to  give  Tom's  letter  to  Margaret.  She  read  it 
twice,  and  said  at  last  that  they  would  not  have  any 
satisfactory  news  until  Archer  wrote,  and  that  things 


292  CIRCUMSTANCE 

about  the  boundaries  and  her  uncle's  wishes  in  re- 
gard to  them  seemed  to  be  in  a  queer  snarl.  "When 
Harry  mentioned  the  mislaid  letter-book  she  became 
silent,  and  then  said : 

"That  woman  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Mary  was 
right.  I  should  like  to  know  what  it  all  means.  We 
shall  never  be  allowed  to  see  the  copies,  but  some 
day  we  shall  see  the  letters." 

"The  mischief  is  done,  Madge;  and,  after  all, 
Heaven  knows  what  that  old  man  may  have  writ- 
ten.'' 

"No;  Mrs.  Hunter  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  matter. 
If  she  were  not,  we  should  have  seen  the  letter-book. 
Either  she  was  afraid  or  meant  to  screen  Uncle 
John. ' ' 

"The  latter  seems  the  more  likely." 


XXX 

[WO  weeks  passed  by,  and  March  was 
nearing  its  close.  Archer  had  written 
that  Pilgrim  was  slowly  mending,  but 
suffered  a  good  deal.  Springer  had 
become  the  sworn  friend  of  Tom,  who 
had  promised  him  that  he  should  have  a  legal  title 
to  his  farm.  The  boys  had  come  in,  and  Tom  was 
off  with  them  after  bears.  Mrs.  Springer  had  a  new 
gown.  Tom  and  the  doctor  had  come  to  some  kind 
of  an  agreement  with  the  mountain  men,  and  there 
was  peace  for  the  present. 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  at  ease,  and  began  to  spin  more 
spider-webs,  and  Mary  to  make  arrangements  for 
their  annual  moving  to  their  country  home  in  April. 
She  had  new  cause  for  annoyance.  Her  uncle  had 
told  Margaret  that  the  rooms  she  and  her  children 
usually  occupied  at  Edgewood  would  be  needed  for 
Mrs.  Hunter.  In  fact,  he  did  not  see  how  he  could 
take  them  at  all.  But  he  would  like  to  have  Jack 
and  his  nurse. 

Madge  said  that  where  she  went  Jack  must  go, 
and  with  difficulty  restrained  herself  from  warmer 
speech.  She  was  less  impulsive  than  Mary,  and  per- 
haps, too,  was  less  indifferent  as  to  what  her  uncle 
might  be  driven  to  do  in  regard  to  his  estate.  To 


294  CIRCUMSTANCE 

do  her  full  justice,  it  was  less  the  thought  of  herself 
than  of  Harry  and  her  children  that  kept  down  the 
angry  answer  with  which  her  sister  received  a  like 
statement  from  Mr.  Fairthorne.  Mary  knew  that 
not  to  have  her  summer  home  at  Edgewood  would  be 
a  sad  loss  for  Madge  and  an  inconvenience  as  con- 
cerned expenditures.  She  said  as  much  to  her  uncle. 

She  had  learned  that  to  find  fault  writh  Lucretia 
only  excited  him ;  of  her,  therefore,  she  said  nothing. 
When  she  mentioned  that  it  would  hurt  her  to  lose 
this  summer  company,  he  replied : 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go  with  her  to  the  shore?" 
adding  that  he  was  willing  to  pay  expenses. 

Then  Mary,  vexed  beyond  endurance,  said:  "No 
one  shall  drive  me  out  of  my  home,  neither  Mrs. 
Hunter  nor  you.  If  you  insist  on  this  banishing  of 
Madge,  and  really  desire  to  get  rid  of  us,  I  will  go ; 
but  you  must  say  so  plainly,  and  I  shall  go  and  never 
return.  But  as  you  sometimes  change  your  mind,  I 
should  like  you  to  say  distinctly  on  paper  what  you 
want." 

Upon  this  he  declared  that  he  never  changed  his 
mind  and  that  when  he  wanted  to  talk  things  over 
he  was  always  misunderstood.  Perhaps  later,  in 
July,  they  might  come.  He  was  getting  confused. 

"Then  I  remain,  uncle,  and  I  trust  that  you  will 
see  that  you  are  going  to  give  occasion  to  a  good  deal 
of  gossip  if  you  persist  in  allowing  this  woman  to 
drive  us  out  and  to  rule  your  house." 

He  began  to  state  in  an  elaborate  way  how  essen- 
tial to  his  work  Lucretia  had  become,  and  wandered 
on  until  he  forgot  and  repeated  himself  endlessly, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  295 

while  the  girl  listened  sadly  as  she  stood  by  his  chair 
and  saw  that  he  was  losing  all  that  had  once  made 
him  an  attractive  companion. 

At  last  she  said  boldly:  "Well,  then,  I  am  to  un- 
derstand that  Madge  and  Harry  are  to  go  to  Edge- 
wood  as  usual?" 

"I  will  think  about  it,"  he  said.  "I  am  always 
misunderstood. ' ' 

"Then  I  will  talk  it  over  with  Mrs.  Hunter, 
uncle." 

' '  Yes,  yes ;  I  wish  you  would.  That  will  do. ' '  He 
was  tired,  and  willing  to  accept  terms.  Mrs.  Hunter 
had  for  the  first  time  found  him  a  little  hard  to 
manage.  He  had  yielded  when  she  suggested  that 
Jack  and  the  nurse  might  come. 

Mary  went  at  once  to  Mrs.  Hunter's  room  and 
knocked.  Mrs.  Hunter  laid  aside  her  study  of  the 
pleasant  figures  in  her  bank-book  and  rose. 

"So  glad  to  see  you,  Mary." 

"No,  I  will  not  sit  down.  I  have  already  twice 
reminded  you  that  I  am  Miss  Fairthorne.  I  am 
Mary  for  my  friends." 

Then  Lucretia  knew  that  hostilities  had  opened. 
The  "Mary"  was  pure  insolence  and  meant  to  annoy. 

"Pray  pardon  me,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Nothing.  I  come  from  my  uncle  to  say  that  my 
sister  will,  as  usual,  have  her  own  rooms  at  Edge- 
wood.  What  you  have  to  do  with  it  I  cannot  see, 
but  as  my  uncle  wished  me  to  speak  of  it  I  have 
done  so." 

Mrs.  Hunter  was  for  the  moment  disconcerted  and 
silent.  She  was  not  easily  routed,  but  something  in 


296  CIRCUMSTANCE 

the  cold  quiet  of  the  erect  and  dignified  girl  who 
spoke  confused  her  wits.  She  said :  "  Of  course,  of 
course.  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Fairthorne." 

At  this  Mary  lost  her  temper. 

"You  will  speak  of  it !  I  have  endured  from  you, 
Mrs.  Hunter,  more  than  I  could  ever  have  believed 
I  could  bear.  I  think  you  a  designing  adventuress. 
^/  You  have  separated  my  cousin  from  me.  You  have 
fooled  and  flattered  a  weak  old  man  and  made  end- 
less mischief.  I  trust  that  some  day  you  will  suffer 
for  it.  If  we  were  men  I  should  long  ago  have  laid 
v/  a  horsewhip  across  your  shoulders. ' '  She  advanced 
as  she  spoke,  tall,  flushed,  and  angry. 

Mrs.  Hunter  stepped  back  in  honest  alarm,  and, 
tripping  over  a  rocking-chair,  fell  on  the  bed  with  a 
faint  cry.  She  was  on  her  feet  in  a  moment,  reas- 
sured and  furious. 

"I  shall  lay  this  whole  matter  before  your  uncle. 
I  am  not  a  servant. ' ' 

"Pray  omit  nothing,"  said  Mary,  as  she  went  to 
her  own  room. 

Mrs.  Hunter  sat  down.  She  had  been  thwarted 
by  the  will  and  sagacity  of  a  girl.  She  felt  that 
she  would  have  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  entirely  hos- 
tile if  the  Swan  wicks  spent  the  summer  at  Edge- 
wood.  She  had  definite  views  as  to  what  she  desired, 
and  had  recently  worked  out  conceptions  as  clear  of 
how  she  would  bring  her  plan  to  a  successful  issue. 
It  would  evidently  be  desirable  to  act  sooner  than  she 
had  meant  to  do.  Her  brief  anger  cooled  quickly. 

Not  so  that  of  the  larger  nature.  Mary  went  to  her 
room  still  feeling  the  effects  of  recent  passion.  It 


CIRCUMSTANCE  297 

would  leave  her  physically  weak  for  a  day,  as  she 
knew  full  well.  She  took  herself  to  task  and,  while  she 
threw  out  anchors  of  good  resolutions  against  future 
occasions,  she  was  not  altogether  displeased  at  the 
defeat  her  diplomacy  had  brought  about.  She  had 
other  cause  for  satisfaction.  Archer  had  written  to 
her  on  his  way  South  that  her  uncle  might  need  ad- 
vice, and  had  asked  her  to  suggest  Dr.  Miller.  Mary 
replied,  thanking  him,  but  although  she  wrote  no 
more  he  continued  to  send  her  letters.  She  told 
Madge  how  interesting  were  his  descriptions  of  the 
mountain  people,  but  did  not  offer  to  show  his  letters. 
He  rarely  and  never  willingly  talked  of  himself. 
Why  did  he  write  of  his  life  and  ambitions,  of  the 
strain  the  war  had  brought? 

When,  after  her  talk,  Mary  was  calm  enough  to 
use  a  pen  she  wrote  to  Madge  that  the  summer  plans 
were  not  to  be  disturbed.  She  sent  off  a  servant 
with  the  note,  and  went  back  to  her  uncle's  study. 
Mrs.  Hunter  was  writing  at  her  desk. 

" Uncle,"  said  Mary,  "I  have  written  to  Madge 
that  the  misapprehension  as  to  your  summer  plans 
is  over,  and  that  you  desire  her  to  occupy  her  own 
rooms  as  usual." 

He  looked  up  from  a  French  catalogue  of  auto- 
graphs and  said : 

''Why,  yes,  of  course.  What  was  it  I  said?  Oh, 
about  rooms.  Mrs.  Hunter  must  be  taken  care  of." 

Pausing  in  her  work,  Mrs.  Hunter  said : 

"I  hope  not  to  be  in  the  way  or  to  incommode 
Mrs.  Swanwick  or  Miss  Fairthorne. ' '  She  turned  to 
Mary  as  she  spoke.  Her  eyes,  commonly  wide  open, 


298  CIRCUMSTANCE 

contracted  to  a  narrow  slit.  For  the  first  time  since 
she  had  known  Lucretia,  Mary  felt  a  touch  of  some- 
thing akin  to  fear. 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  not  fulfilled  her  promise  of  com- 
plaining to  Mr.  Fairthorne.  She  did  not  now  mean 
to  do  so.  Mr.  Fairthorne  looked  about  him  as  if 
bewildered,  and  said,  "What,  what!" — a  way  he  had. 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself  further,  sir,"  said  Mary. 
"Mrs.  Hunter  and  I  are  quite  at  one  about  it." 

' '  Ah,  just  so,  just  so, ' '  and  here  the  matter  rested. 


XXXI 

:RS.  HUNTER  took  care  that  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne  should  not  have  cause  to  com- 
plain of  the  loss  of  his  daily  visits  from 
Archer,  and  for  a  week  there  had,  in- 
deed, been  no  real  need  for  a  physi- 
cian. Meanwhile  she  kept  the  letter-book  out  of 
view,  and  in  the  face  of  family  criticism  and  curios- 
ity Fairthorne  got  into  the  mental  attitude  of  being 
wronged  by  what  was  certainly  the  fault  of  his  own 
much  amended  instructions.  Swanwick  had  been 
very  insistent  in  his  desire  to  see  the  letters.  Mar- 
garet had  been  inquisitive.  Mrs.  Hunter,  equal  to 
the  situation,  assured  Mr.  Fairthorne  that  all  this 
inquiry  into  his  private  affairs  was  an  impertinence, 
and  he  made  this  plain  to  all  concerned,  dismissing 
as  usual  all  that  might  cause  discomfort.  The  hus- 
band and  wife  felt  that  there  was  nothing  to  do 
except  to  wait  for  the  chance  of  seeing  the  letters 
Pilgrim  had  received,  and  were  in  fact  too  far  from 
guessing  the  truth  to  make  a  further  struggle  for 
the  production  of  the  letter-book.  Enough  was 
hinted  or  said  frankly  to  trouble  the  old  man,  and 
he  swore  they  wanted  to  kill  him,  and  as  usual  com- 
plained of  his  heart.  Mrs.  Hunter  insisted  that  he 
had  only  to  exercise  will-power  to  be  stronger,  that 


300  CIRCUMSTANCE 

he  must  do  a  little  more  each  day  and  that  all  doc- 
tors were  both  needless  and  costly.  If,  however,  he 
felt  relieved  from  the  despotism  of  Archer's  common 
sense,  he  soon  missed  the  fresh  air  of  the  active  outer 
world  which  the  physician  brought  to  a  house  into 
which  nowadays  few  interesting  persons  came.  Mrs. 
Hunter,  with  all  her  surface  cleverness  and  manu- 
factured gaiety,  was  too  much  with  him  to  be  con- 

^stantly  what  Archer  was  for  the  hour — a  wholesome 
^  mental  tonic.  When  he  complained  of  his  heart  Mrs. 
Hunter  assured  him  of  the  value  of  her  own  means 
of  relief,  until  one  afternoon,  when  she  had  allowed 
him  to  double  the  length  of  his  usual  walk  in  the 
garden,  he  suddenly  exclaimed  that  he  was  giddy  and 
that  his  heart  hurt  him.  Mrs.  Hunter  with  difficulty 
succeeded  in  getting  him  into  the  drawing-room. 
He  sank  on  a  sofa  and  said  he  was  going  to  die,  and 
they  must  send  for  Archer  at  once.  His  death  was 
the  last  thing  in  the  world  Mrs.  Hunter  desired  just 
yet.  She  rang  the  bell,  and  then  stood  still  a  mo- 
ment with  her  finger  on  his  pulse.  When  the  ser- 
vant came  a  little  brandy  was  brought  and  given  him, 
and  he  felt  better.  He  asked  for  Mary.  She  had 
gone  out.  He  said  he  "must  have  a  doctor."  Mrs. 
Hunter,  saying  she  would  get  a  physician  at  once, 
left  him  with  the  servant  and  wrote  a  note  summon- 
ing Dr.  Soper  in  haste.  He  arrived  within  an  hour 
and  found  Mr.  Fairthorne,  as  he  told  the  doctor, 

,  "quite  well."  A  little  rest  and  the  stimulant  had 
v  set  him  right  for  the  time,  and  he  was  in  the  condi- 
tion of  rather  agreeable  excitement  which  often  fol- 
lows relief  from  pain  and  alarm. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  301 

The  benignant  doctor  sat  down,  considerately 
grave,  and  with  a  finger  on  the  pulse  and  a  large 
watch  in  his  hand,  smiled  reassurance.  His  presence 
puzzled  the  old  man. 

' '  I  suppose  you  could  n  't  find  Archer,  Lucretia  ? ' ' 

Dr.  Soper  said:  "He  is  away  in  Virginia.  For  a 
time  I  fear  you  must  put  up  with  me." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Fairthorne,  "of  course.  I  was 
quite  well  aware  of  that."  He  was  troubled  at  his 
own  lapse  of  memory. 

"These  attacks  upset  me.  What  is  it?  What  's 
wrong  ?  Is  it  serious  ? ' ' 

He  had  not  the  least  desire  to  know  any  too  posi- 
tive truth  about  his  heart.  He  guessed  at  its  gravity, 
but  did  not  want  it  to  be  put  before  him  with  the 
emphasis  of  a  physician's  words.  Soper  understood. 
He  went  through  the  usual  forms  of  examination 
with,  "Ah,  sound  arteries !  What  a  chest !  Wonder- 
ful Fairthorne  constitution!  No  cause  for  uneasi- 
ness! Not  the  least !" 

Mr.  Fairthorne  knew  the  doctor  well,  and  now, 
more  at  ease,  began  to  take  humorous  interest  in  his 
ways,  as  Soper  again  expressed  his  regret  at  Archer 's 
absence  and  his  own  pleasure  in  having,  even  for  a 
time,  the  care  of  Mr.  Fairthorne.  Yes,  perhaps  it 
was  only  a  little  indigestion ;  might  he  suggest  milk 
in  place  of  cocoa?  Fairthorne  said  he  hated  milk, 
and  Soper  retired  from  this  idea,  and  would  in  that 
case  advise  his  cocoa  being  taken  weaker.  Fair- 
thorne, much  pleased,  replied  that  it  was  too  weak 
already.  Soper  fell  back  on  an  inquiry  into  the  diet 
of  the  preceding  day,  and  finally  thought  a  little  calo- 


302  CIRCUMSTANCE 

mel  desirable.  Fairthorne  said  it  never  agreed  with 
him  and  was  deuced  old-fashioned.  The  doctor,  who 
knew  that  the  patient  really  needed  nothing,  and 
yet  that,  being  called  and  a  doctor,  he  must  of  course 
do  something,  said:  "Quite  true;  an  interesting  idio- 
syncrasy. It  will  perhaps  be  as  well  for  the  time 
to  continue  the  heart  tonic  Dr.  Archer  has  been 
giving,  and  I  will  drop  in  to-morrow."  Then  he  com- 
plained a  little  of  the  overwhelming  nature  and 
amount  of  his  work,  and  went  away,  his  watch  re- 
minding him  of  an  important  consultation. 

He  was  hardly  out  of  ear-shot  when  John  Fair- 
thorne exclaimed :  ' '  Why  the  devil  did  you  send  for 
that  old  humbug  ? ' ' 

"Why,"  said  Lucretia,  patting  his  hand  as  he  lay 
on  the  lounge,  "because  he  will  not  insist  on  dosing 
a  man  who  is  not  ill.  He  does  not  know  even  his 
own  stupid  business.  What  is  needed  is  to  know  you, 
sir,  your  vitality,  your  will-power,  your  recuperative 
energy. ' ' 

It  was  silly  enough,  but  it  pleased  a  man  who  was 
losing  both  will  and  ability  to  examine  the  grounds 
of  flattery ;  for,  alas !  it  is  dear  to  age,  as  a  greater 
than  Fairthorne  once  honestly  confessed. 

He  said  in  reply  that  she  might  be  correct,  that  at 
all  events  he  had  no  belief  in  dosing,  and  that  a  doc- 
tor who  was  a  fool  was  next  best  to  none  at  all. 

' '  How  clever  ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  rapturously. 
' '  How  very  clever !  I  must  remember  that, ' '  and  she 
let  her  long  fingers  stray  over  his  gray  locks  until  he 
fell  asleep. 

She  had  future  need  of  this  pliant,  self-satisfied 


CIRCUMSTANCE  303 

physician.  That  afternoon  late,  when  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne  released  his  secretary,  she  went  out  with  much 
upon  her  mind.  She  walked  fast,  an  upright, 
strangely  handsome  woman,  one  of  whom  observant 
people  were  apt  to  say,  ''What  a  striking  face! 
Who  is  she  ? ' '  She  was  tired  of  John  Fairthorne  and 
the  autographs  and  the  books  she  made  believe  to 
like.  In  fact,  she  was  bored,  and  longed  for  a  gayer 
and  less  dignified  life.  If  she  had  made  her  way 
through  the  inner  gates  of  the  old  town  she  would 
for  a  time  have  been  satisfied  with  what  its  social 
welcome  implied,  rather  than  with  what  it  gave,  but 
the  air  was  inimical.  She  made  no  agreeable  ac- 
quaintances. She  was  merely  John  Fairthorne 's 
handsome  secretary.  People  smiled  or  laughed,  and 
she  was  left  to  her  loneliness  and  her  constant  fears 
for  Lionel.  She  walked  on  and  did  a  little  shop- 
ping, and  charged  things  needed  or  not  to  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne's  account,  aware  that  he  would  pay  without 
inconvenient  questions.  She  had  many  ways  of  man- 
aging him.  To  be  in  her  room  a  day  with  a  head- 
ache  was  effective,  or  to  find  in  a  catalogue  a  desired 
autograph.  She  went  on  devising,  planning,  think- 
ing, and,  above  all,  stoutly  facing  the  one  terrible 
embarrassment — Luke  Pilgrim. 

A  homelike  quiet  blessed  the  house  on  Pine  Street 
where  formerly  lived  that  rector  of  St.  Peter's 
Church  who  thought  it  his  duty  to  point  out  to  Wash- 
ington the  need  to  betray  his  country.  The  rector 
lies  near  by  in  St.  Peter's  graveyard;  the  accom- 
plished mischief-maker  who  carried  his  letter  rests 
at  peace  close  to  the  wall  of  the  mother  church.  Of 


304  CIRCUMSTANCE 

the  generations  who  had  since  gone  in  and  out  of 
the  house  none  could  have  furnished  so  strange 
a  group  of  people  as  were  here  met  on  a  Sunday 
evening. 

The  two  little  ladies  fitly  represented  the  colonial 
folk  who  looked  from  their  walls.  Martin  Blount 
illustrated  the  force  of  a  breed  which  no  accidents 
of  fate  could  permanently  subdue,  the  Puritan  blood 
of  a  succession  of  ministers,  colonial  governors,  and 
Indian-fighters.  The  chances  of  life  had  brought 
this  last  of  them  down  to  the  plow-handle.  He  was 
on  his  way  up,  shy  of  being  helped,  hating  money 
obligations,  resolute,  conscientious,  a  little  too  sure 
of  himself,  rapidly  acquiring  the  manners  and  habits 
which,  under  kindlier  social  conditions,  he  would  not 
have  needed  to  be  taught.  He  was  pleased,  in  his 
good-humored  fashion,  with  his  double  acquisition  of 
knowledge  and  the  courtesies  of  life.  Moreover,  he 
was  conscious  of  the  generous  quality  of  these  people 
who  had  busied  themselves  with  the  rough  New  Eng- 
land boy.  In  some  ways  he  resembled  the  man  who 
had  found  it  pleasant  to  help  him. 

Roger  Grace  represented  another  type  of  our  peo- 
ple. He  came  of  the  sturdy  Presbyterian  Scotch- 
Irish  who  very  early  settled  the  hill  country  of  Penn- 
sylvania and  protected  the  Quaker  scalps  of  the 
lower  countries.  From  a  little  community  of  small 
farming  folk  he  had  come  to  the  city  with  five  dollars 
and  a  genius  for  finance.  He  held  sturdily  to  his  reli- 
gion, and  had,  as  we  have  seen,  other  qualities  and 
undeveloped  tastes  which  he  was  agreeably  discover- 
ing with  all  the  zest  of  an  explorer,  and  learning 


CIRCUMSTANCE  305 

to  educate  with  the  assimilative  capacity  of  the 
American. 

And  last  there  was  the  gaunt  form  of  Knellwood, 
now  convalescent,  the  offspring  of  one  of  those  fami- 
lies which  for  generations  found  in  the  navy  the  life 
they  liked  best.  He  had  amazed  them,  after  his  re- 
covery from  a  long  illness,  by  resigning  from  the 
Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis  and  entering  the 
church. 

On  Sunday  evening  they  were  accustomed  to  col- 
lect in  Miss  Markham's  parlor  to  talk  or  read,  as  best 
pleased  them. 

Miss  Letitia  looked  about  her  at  the  two  men,  who 
were  now  silent.  How  comfortable  it  was  to  feel 
at  ease  as  to  her  rent  and  much  beside ! 

Her  sister  was  watching  the  face  of  Roger  Grace. 
He  had  looked  serious  of  late,  and  to-night  was  almost 
austere.  What  was  it  that  troubled  him?  He  had 
talked  to  her  with  such  glad  freedom  as  he  had  never 
used  before  to  man  or  woman.  What  could  have 
disturbed  his  almost  proverbial  good  nature,  which 
had  so  often  brought  peace  into  boards  of  directors, 
and  restored  to  men  the  power  to  consider  matters 
calmly?  He  was  gazing  at  the  fire  and  now  and 
then  moving  as  if  uneasy.  His  partners  and  clerks 
well  knew  the  mood  which  sometimes  came  in  the 
spring  and  dreaded  the  accompanying  irritability 
which  set  every  one  on  edge.  He  said  it  was  the 
\S  gout,  and  was  pretty  sure  to  decide  that  he  must  go 
to  Saratoga  or  Bedford,  and  to  return  in  high  good 
humor  and  perfect  health ;  but  of  this  Miss  Clemen- 
tina knew  nothing. 


V 


306  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Mr.  Knellwood  sat  still,  with  a  copy  of  the  Apocry- 
pha in  his  hand.  He  smiled  as  he  turned  to  the 
banker,  saying:  "You  should  quote  contexts,  Mr. 
Grace,  when  you  knock  down  a  clergyman  with  a 
text. ' '  He  was  very  pleasant,  this  big  man,  when  he 
let  himself  be  natural,  and  now  he  was  experiencing 
that  exhilarating  sense  of  returning  vigor  which 
makes  convalescence  delightful. 

Grace  sat  up,  and,  conscious  of  effort,  shook  off 
the  captivity  of  the  mood  he  had  learned  to  fear. 

"What  is  it?  "he  said. 

"Miss  Clementina  shall  judge.  Mr.  Grace  has  had 
me  at  his  mercy,  and  lectures  me  daily  as  to  what  he 
calls  my  wicked  neglect  of  my  health.  I  think  it  is 
merely  an  unfair  mode  of  revenge  for  the  dull  ser- 
mons he  has  heard  from  his  youth  up. ' ' 

"And  what  is  it  now?"  asked  Clementina,  while 
Blount  reluctantly  laid  aside  his  book  to  listen. 

"Oh,  he  quoted  for  my  benefit  this  advice,  this 
text :  'But  this  again  did  even  forget  his  own  strength 
that  the  righteous  might  be  nourished.'  ' 

"I  do  not  know  it,"  said  Clementina. 

"It  is  in  the  Wisdom  of  Solomon,"  said  Knell- 
wood,  "and  was  dreadfully  misapplied.  At  first  I 
did  not  recall  it." 

"No,"  laughed  Grace;  "you  clergymen  rarely 
know  the  Bible  as  do  our  divines." 

Knellwood  laughed  quite  merrily.  "It  applied  to 
Jehovah,  not  to  man."  He  rose  as  he  spoke,  add- 
ing: "I  must  go,  I  suppose,  and  have  my  bedtime 
diet." 

"Let  him  groan,"  said  Grace;  "we  shall  soon  have 


CIRCUMSTANCE  307 

him  fat.  I  promise  to  hear  your  first  sermon,  Knell- 
wood.  ' ' 

"And  I,"  said  Martin.  ''Miss  Letitia  takes  me 
to  Christ  Church." 

"And  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  said  Clementina,  "to 
mislead  an  innocent  Presbyterian  youth. ' '  With  this 
mildly  humorous  statement  she  slyly  eyed  her  sister, 
who  said :  ' '  Clementina,  that  is  not  quite  respectful, 
nor  is  it  correct." 

Clementina  excused  herself,  and  Martin  said : ' '  Oh, 
we  are  Congregationalisms,  not  Presbyterians." 

Miss  Letitia  thought  it  very  bewildering,  and  how 
much  better  it  would  be  if  they  could  all  see  their 
errors  and  come  into  the  only  true  church! 

"That  is  good  ultimate  advice  to  go  to  bed  on," 
said  Knellwood.  "How  well  you  have  made  me, 
you  dear  people !  Good  night. ' ' 

Grace  followed  him.  In  the  hall  he  said:  "I  will 
send  my  coupe  for  you  to  drive  to-morrow  at  noon 
if  it  is  clear.  I  want  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  you 
before  I  go  out  in  the  morning,  say  about  ten. ' ' 

"I  am  at  your  service.  I  wish  there  were  any- 
thing on  earth  I  could  do  to  make  you  know  how 
grateful  I  am,  and  shall  ever  be." 

' '  There  is  something.     Good  night. ' ' 

"Ah,  Martin,"  said  Grace,  meeting  him  on  the 
stairs,  "have  you  still  your  mind  made  up  not  to 
oblige  me?" 

' '  Please  don 't  put  it  in  that  way,  sir. ' '  He  spoke 
earnestly.  "No,  I  cannot.  I  go  to  Bedford  in  a 
week." 

"In  a  week?"  said  Grace.     "Well,  I  am  not  very 


308  CIRCUMSTANCE 

much  disobliged.  This  is  the  third  of  May,  is  n't 
it?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  am  very  much  in  the  habit  of  going  to  Bedford 
Springs  some  time  in  April  or  May.  It  is  uncertain. 
We  shall  have  some  rides,  I  hope. ' ' 

"I  don't  have  much  time,  what  with  accounts 
and  the  way  women  ask  questions.  A  hotel  clerk  is 
everybody's  slave.  Good  night,  sir." 


XXXII 

LITTLE  before  ten  next  morning  the 
banker  sat  in  his  library.  The  room 
looked  to  the  south,  over  brick-paved 
walks  and  vine-clad  walls.  The  day 
was  somber.  An  east  wind  shook  the 
swaying  vine  branches  and  thin  rain  fell  softly  on 
the  opening  leaves  of  early  May.  He  gazed  at  the 
rows  of  books  on  finance  and  political  economy,  and 
then  for  a  moment  at  what  usually  pleased  him,  a  fine 
old  "Burgomaster"  by  some  unknown  Dutch  artist, 
and  a  Vandyke  lately  bought,  a  resolute-looking  sol- 
dier in  dark  velvet.  He  was  learning  to  love  art, 
and,  above  all,  the  great  portraits,  but  just  now  they 
failed  to  interest  him.  He  lit  a  cigar  and  sat  down, 
with  his  head  in  his  hands ;  he  had  passed  an  almost 
sleepless  night,  though  usually  he  had  the  priceless 
power  to  sleep  serenely,  no  matter  what  trials  or 
disasters  the  day  had  brought.  His  cigar  went  out. 
He  threw  it  away  as  Knellwood  entered. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.  "I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  do  what  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  I  could  never 
do.  I  want  to  speak  of  myself.  I  am  in  deep  waters, 
in  despair." 

"Whatever  I,  as  a  priest,  can  do  for  you — " 
"Oh,  I  want  a  man,  not  a  priest.     You  are  a  man. 


310  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Why  I  am  telling  you  what  I  mean  to  I  cannot  fully 
explain  to  myself  or  to  you.  I  know  it  will  not  help 
me — it  cannot  help  me.  You  cannot  help  me." 

"But  God  may." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  have  not  gone  there  for  help  ?" 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Knellwood. '  "Knowing  you,  I 
ought  not  to  have  said  it.  I  should  like  you  to  feel 
how,  with  all  my  heart,  I  long  to  serve  you  who  have 
done  so  much  for  me.  Perhaps  out  of  the  desire  I 
have  to  assist  you  a  way  will  open. ' ' 

"It  will  not,  and  yet  I  mean  for  once  to  lay  bare 
my  trouble.  I  am  a  straightforward  man,  and  shall 
speak  plainly.  Hear  me  to  the  close.  Then  you 
will  see." 

He  told  his  story  clearly,  and  without  emotional 
emphasis. 

"Before  I  was  born  my  father  and  grandfather 
died  drunkards.  I  never  knew  it  until  I  was  a 
man.  I  had  no  inclination  that  way.  I  never  have 
had  the  usual  form  of  this  temptation.  I  can  to 
this  day  take  without  risk,  at  dinner,  my  glass  of 
wine.  When  I  was  about  thirty  I  had  a  commer- 
cial disaster  and  lost  heavily.  This  was  in  May.  I 
J  was  seized  with  a  sudden  desire  to  drink — oh,  to  put 
it  brutally,  to  get  drunk.  From  that  day  to  this  it 
comes  again  once  in  two  or  three  years.  Sometimes, 
as  last  spring,  I  can  overcome  it.  This  year  it  is  on 
me  like — oh,  nothing  I  can  liken  it  to  will  let  you 
know  its  power.  When  it  comes  as  it  does  this  year 
I  am  gone.  I  yield.  I  give  up." 

"But,  dear  friend,  are  you  not  over-stating  it? 
How  can  it  be  ?  You,  of  all  men ! ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  311 

"I  am  impotent  when  it  comes.  I  use  all  the 
brains  I  have  to  defend  my  good  name.  I  go  away 
to  some  remote  little  town.  I  calmly  arrange  to  be 
cared  for,  not  as  Roger  Grace;  then  I  drink  and 
drink.  When  I  am  through  with  it  I  go  to  some 
spring  and  cleanse  myself  of  the  consequences.  I 
return  at  last,  feeling  physically  well  and  clear  in 
mind." 

The  barren  simplicity  of  this  statement  appalled 
the  good  priest.  How  bewildering  was  the  thing 
he  had  felt  so  hopeful  of  assisting  with  some  one  of 
the  many  kindly  formulas  he  had  been  wont  to  find 
of  value!  For  a  moment  .neither  spoke,  until  Grace 
went  on : 

"I  need  not  say  that  I  have  been  in  constant 
terror  of  exposure.  I  am  a  more  sensitive  man  than 
you  would  think  it  possible  for  one  like  me  to  be. 
I  have  lived,  I  think,  an  upright  life.  I  have  tried 
to  be  all  a  man  ought  to  be.  In  my  own  church, 
in  hospitals,  and  financial  boards  I  am,  I  believe, 
useful  and  respected.  Of  late  years  I  have  learned 
how  to  enjoy  what  my  youth  never  knew,  the  so- 
cial contact  with  men  and  women  whose  happier 
chances  have  brought  them  refinement  and  culti- 
vated tastes.  I  made  friends — you,  the  Swanwicks, 
and  others.  My  God !  Knellwood,  if  this  were 
ever  known  I  should  simply  give  up  and  go  away 
for  years." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Knellwood.  "And  may  I 
now  say  what  I  in  my  poor  way  think  ? ' ' 

"Not  yet.  There  is  worse.  I  know  I  shall  yield, 
give  up,  go  some  day  in  a  week  or  two  or  later,  shall 


312  CIRCUMSTANCE 

go  as  a  man  on  an  avalanche  goes — helpless.  And 
this  year  we  are  on  the  verge  of  a  financial  crisis. 
Personally  I  am  safe ;  but  I  am  bound  to  protect  by 
money  and  counsel  many  interests.  There  are  weak 
institutions  to  be  upheld  by  me  and  others.  I  ought 
to  be  here,  and  yet  at  the  hour  of  need  I  may  be 
lying  senseless  and  mindless.  One  word  more,  the 
saddest  of  all,  and  over  it  I  hesitate.  I  have  been 
a  lonely  man,  Knellwood.  I  have  had,  until  I  came 
to  this  house,  no  real  home,  no  serious  thought  of 
y  the  possibility  of  a  wife  and  children.  Pity  me,  my 
friend;  I  have  learned  that  the  little  lady,  Miss 
Clementina,  may  in  time  be  willing  to  share  my  life. 
Poor  fool  that  I  was!  It  made  me  happy.  But 
now,  with  this  anguish  of  guilty  craving  on  me,  how 
can  I  ?  How  can  I  ?  Last  spring  I  mastered  it,  and 
rather  easily.  That  is— that  was— my  sole  excuse. 
It  would  not  be  right  now,  would  it,  Knellwood?" 

He  was  at  last  growing  emotional,  and  sat  with 

flushed  and  working  face,  drumming  nervously  on 

the  table.     "One  word  of  excuse  for  troubling  you. 

No,  do  not  speak;  let  me  finish.     I  said  I  did  not 

know  why  I  was  willing  to  open  my  sad  secret  to 

you.     It  was  not  quite  correct.     It  was  because  I 

trust  you  to  answer  honestly  the  one  question  which 

most  pains  me:  if,  having  so  nearly  committed  my- 

/    self  as  I  have,  I  am  not  still  right  to  refuse  to  ask 

V     a  woman  to  share  a  stained  and  ignoble  life  ? ' ' 

"No,  a  thousand  times  no.     You  are  wrong." 

Grace  shook  his  head. 

"I  hoped  you  would  agree  with  me.  I  did  hope 
you  would.  If  you  could  only  see  it  as  I  do." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  313 

"I  do  not.     Think  it  over." 

"It  is  useless.  I  should  have  felt  strengthened 
for  an  inevitable  duty  had  you  agreed  with  me. 
Let  us  leave  it.  J  thank  you.  I  am  a  lost  and  a 
most  unhappy  man." 

Knellwood  put  out  one  of  his  large  hands,  the 
hand  of  an  athlete  and  a  gentleman,  took  that  of 
Grace,  and  pressing  it  gently  dropped  it.  It  had 
seemed  so  easy  to  say  to  a  penitent,  Do  this,  or  that, 
and  the  like,  but  the  strength  and  the  spiritual  force 
of  this  man  forbade  the  use  of  what  had  often 
seemed  to  him  helpful.  What  could  he  say,  who 
was  himself  in  the  grip  of  a  maddening  tempta- 
tion! With  anguish  at  the  thought  that  here  was 
a  case  for  which,  yearn  as  he  might,  he  had  no 
available  remedy,  he  spoke: 

"Mr.  Grace,  as  a  priest  I  have  no  suggestion  to 
make.  You  know  as  well  as  I  what  to  do.  I  shall 
pray  for  you  to  be  delivered  from  this  temptation." 

Grace  smiled  the  curious  smile  which  Margaret 
had  described  as  pathetic. 

"I  am  not  disappointed." 

"But  I  have  not  finished,"  said  his  friend.    "You 
overrate  the  effects  of  a  possible  exposure.     Were  it 
known  it  would  be  your  duty  to  remain  and  fight        , 
it  out." 

"Never!  I  could  not!  I  should  flee  like  a 
leper." 

"Let  us  drop  that  just  now.  This  seems  to  me 
a  case  in  which  a  doctor,  a  man  like  Archer,  might 
be  worth  something.  Have  you  ever  asked  him  or 
any  one?" 


314  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"No.  If  I  asked  any  one  it  would  be  Sydney 
Archer.  He  is  absent,  and  Mr.  Pilgrim,  I  hear,  is 
worse.  He  will  not  leave  him,  so  he  writes.  I  can 
fight  for  a  while,  but  then  I  am  gone  all  of  a  sudden, 
like  a  dismasted  ship  on  a  lee  shore." 

"May  I  not  go  with  you?" 

"No,  no.  I  should  like  you  to  know  only  Roger 
Grace  sober;  and  let  no  thought  of  helping  me 
through  another  tempt  you  to  speak  of  this,  not  to 
Archer,  not  to  any  one." 

' '  Surely  not, ' '  and  yet  he  felt  sorry  thus  to  pledge 
himself.  "But  if  Archer  return?" 

"He  will  not  be  in  time."  He  stood  up,  looking 
at  his  watch.  ' '  I  have  to  meet  some  railroad  people. 
You  must  now,  and  in  my  absence— in  fact,  always— 
use  this  as  your  study.  Over  there  is  your  table, 
as  you  know.  You  will  not  go  out,  as  it  's  raining. ' ' 

When  Grace  had  left  him  Knellwood  sat  down 
and  gave  himself  to  thought  of  his  friend.  It  was 
useless.  He  set  it  all  aside,  sorry  and  hopeless. 
Now  that  he  could  drive  out,  it  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  thank  Miss  Morrow  for  the  constant  kind- 
ness shown  him.  Although  the  wine,  the  game,  and 
the  flowers  left  at  the  house  were  nearly  always  ac- 
companied by  John  Fairthorne's  card,  he  knew  very 
well  that  when  his  carriage  brought  these  luxuries 
it  was  Miss  Kitty  who  asked  in  person  how  he  was. 
Since  that  evening  at  Mrs.  Swan  wick's  he  had  been 
able  to  avoid  her,  and  then  had  come  his  illness. 
Was  it  sent  in  kindness?  More  and  more,  with  the 
return  of  health,  he  feared  her  and  feared  himself. 

He  most  earnestly  believed  that  no  priest  should 


CIECUMSTANCE  315 

marry,  and  began  to  wish  that  some  unbreakable 
vow  of  celibacy  armed  him  against  a  temptation  of 
which  he  felt  ashamed.  He  resolved  that  opportu- 
nity should  not  add  to  his  peril  and  that  he  would 
go  in  person  and  thank  Mr.  Fairthorne.  Miss 
Kitty's  notes,  which  now  came  often,  he  had  not  an- 
swered. They  were  tender  inquiries,  really  needing 
no  reply.  He  had  written  thanking  her,  saying  that 
he  was  forbidden  to  write  much  and  begging  that  she 
would  not  tax  him  further.  It  was  a  cold  note, 
and  when  she  showed  it  to  Mrs.  Hunter  that  lady,  to 
whom  Kitty  had  at  last  confessed  herself  freely,  said 
that  Knellwood  was  a  priest  and  not  a  man,  and  that 
it  was  hopeless.  Kitty  cried  a  good  deal,  and  waited, 
confident  and  unused  to  defeat. 

With  the  instinct  of  her  kind,  she  ceased  to  seek 
any  form  of  communication  with  the  man  for  whom 
she  would  have  made  any  sacrifice.  She  gave  up 
writing  him  notes  or  speaking  of  him,  so  that  Mrs. 
Hunter,  accustomed  to  listen  and  console,  became 
uneasy  at  what  she  did  not  understand.  She  trusted 
no  one,  and  was  at  once  suspicious.  She  herself  had 
no  femininity,  and  did  not  see  through  Kitty's  com- 
monplace game,  but  she  meant  that  no  one  should 
marry  Kitty,  and  that  some  day  they  should  travel 
together  abroad.  As  to  Knell  wood's  views  on  celi- 
bacy interfering  between  him  and  a  pretty  woman, 
well  dowered,  she  laughed. 


XXXIII 

[ARGARET,"  said  Swanwick,  one  day 
before  dinner,  "all  sorts  of  things  are 
happening.  Here  is  a  letter  from 
Archer.  He  will  be  back  in  three  days. 
What  a  friend  he  is!  Think  of  the 
confusion  and  loss  and  sacrifice  for  a  busy  doctor  to 
give  a  month  to  a  friend." 

"Yes,  it  is  fine.  He  is  an  ideal  friend.  Do  you 
remember  that  some  one  called  the  poet  Donne  'the 
priest  of  friendship'?  It  is  the  harder  for  Archer, 
because  he  needs  all  he  can  make.  Ah,  I  wish  I 
were  he  for  a  month ! ' ' 
"Why,  Madge?" 

"I  should  marry  that  sister  of  mine.  Kitty  is  out 
of  the  game,  thank  Heaven!  Why  do  men  want 
her?" 

"How  do  I  know?"    But  he  did. 
"Well,  what  else?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Pilgrim  will  not  come  to  us.  He 
has  rooms  at  the  Continental.  I  am  sorry — ' ' 

"You  spoke  of  all  manner  of  news.  What  else 
is  there?" 

"Oh,  there  is  mischief  brewing  in  money  mat- 
ters and  more  rumors  about  that  confounded  Re- 
public Trust." 

316 


CIRCUMSTANCE  317 

"You  were  wise  to  insist  on  giving  up  as  its 
counsel." 

''Was  I  not?  I  went  in  to  see  Grace  on  my  way 
down-town,  because,  now  more  than  ever,  he  wants 
Uncle  John  to  hold  his  stock  or  to  let  him  take  it 
in  block  at  par.  It  is  down  to  ninety.  Your  uncle 
once  refused  his  offer,  and,  I  fancy,  believed  that 
Grace — Grace,  of  all  people — meant  to  take  some 
unfair  advantage." 

"That  seems  incredible." 

"No.  He  thinks  honor  is  not  found  outside  of  a 
small  number  of  people  who  have  great-grandfa- 
thers. I  wanted  to  get  Grace's  advice  and  then  talk 
again  to  Mr.  Fairthorne." 

"He  is  getting  to  be  very  dull-minded,  Harry,  and 
very  cross.  I  never  before  saw  him  fail  to  take 
notice  of  Jack.  Mrs.  Hunter  used  to  go  out  when 
I  called;  now  she  does  not.  Mary  is  never  with 
my  uncle.  She  was  driven  away,  and  is  not  to  be 
blamed  for  absence." 

"That  is  all  true,"  he  returned;  "and  the  old  man 
is  obviously  breaking  up.  Now  and  then  he  is  his 
old  self  for  an  hour." 

"But  what  happened,  Harry?  What  did  Mr. 
Grace  say?" 

"I  did  not  see  him.  Mr.  West,  his  partner,  said 
he  had  left  town  for  New  York  yesterday  and  would 
be  absent  two  or  three  weeks,  and  at  such  a  time 
that  seems  strange.  When  I  pushed  West  a  little, 
he  said,  'Mr.  Swanwick,  about  once  in  a  year  or 
two  Mr.  Grace  gets  so  unreasonable  and  so  irritable 
that  we  are  driven  frantic.  It  is  gout,  I  suppose ;  \i 


318  CIRCUMSTANCE 

he  says  it  is.  At  last  he  declares  he  can  stand  it 
no  longer,  and  goes  away,  usually  to  Bedford.  He 
orders  that  no  letters  be  sent  and  disappears.  He 
comes  back,  and  is  pleasant  and  well.  Every  one 
here  knows  his  way,  but  just  now  it  is  serious.  Of 
course  I  shall  wire  and  write  in  case  of  need.' 
Then  he  asked  me,  as  their  counsel,  one  or  two  ques- 
tions, and  I  left.  On  my  way  out  of  their  office  I 
met  that  insufferable  cub  Craig.  He  said,  'How 
are  you,  Mr.  Swan  wick  ?  Getting  hot  in  Wall  Street, 
they  say.'  I  said  I  had  no  interest  in  stocks  or 
Wall  Street.  'Well,  the  boss  has  gone.  He  was  past 
standing.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Swan  wick,  if  it  was  n't 
for — well,  no  gentleman  ought  to  be  addressed,  sir, 
in  the  terms  he  used  to  me.'  I  think  he  had  been 
drinking.  I  said  that  this  concerned  me  still  less. 
He  probably  had  got  a  sharp  wigging  from  some 
one." 

"Is  n't  there  something  singular  about  Mr. Grace's 
being  away  just  now?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear.  You  are  quite  right.  As 
things  look,  nothing  but  grave  illness  could  ex- 
plain or  excuse  it;  and  to  order  that  no  letters  be 
sent!" 

"Oh !  I  presume  Mr.  West  will  disobey  that ;  you 
said  as  much." 

"Of  course,"  and  they  talked  of  other  matters. 
The  woman,  however,  continued  to  wonder,  having 
herself  noticed  that  Mr.  Grace  had  lost  his  spirits. 

The  day  the  banker  left,  Knellwood  received  a 
note  stating  that  he  had  gone  to  New  York  and  else- 
where. It  said  simply : 


CIRCUMSTANCE  319 

"  I  go  because  I  must.  I  go  to  the  neglect  of  plain  duty.  No 
one  who  has  been  in  the  clutches  of  a  temptation  like  mine  can 
imagine  the  almost  mechanical  certainty  of  its  action.  It  is 
like  a  machine.  I  have  an  awful  joy  in  having  yielded.  I  look 
forward  and  can  hardly  wait.  Burn  this." 

The  rector  sadly  obeyed. 


xxxrv 

I  HE  day  was  warm  and  pleasant,  a  May 
morn  of  sunshine.  Felisa  sat  on  the 
window-ledge,  sole  inhabitant  of  the 
study.  Mary  Fairthorne  entered  and 
looked  about  her,  surprised  to  find  her 
uncle  later  than  the  hour  of  ten.  She  sat  down  at 
the  window  and  patted  Felisa.  Mrs.  Hunter  came 
in,  followed  by  Dr.  Soper.  The  cat  walked  across 
the  room  and  leaped  on  to  the  table.  Lucretia  set 
her  on  her  shoulder,  while  the  fat  doctor  said : 

"Good  morning,  Mary.    Quite  remarkable,  the  at- 
tachment of  animals,  quite.     I  find  your  uncle  un- 
usually well,  unusually  well.     I  have  just  left  him. ' ' 
"But,  doctor,  he  seems  to  me  to  be  far  from  well." 
"I  think  you  should  be  very  careful,"  said  Mrs. 
Hunter.     "The  least  hint  of  that  kind  depresses 
him." 

"How  he  is  to  hear  it  except  through  you,"  said 
Mary,  "I  cannot  imagine.  Good-bye,  doctor,"  and 
she  left  the  room. 

"You  see,  my  dear  doctor,"  said  Lucretia,  "what 
I  have  to  endure.  Nothing  except  my  attachment 
to  this  dear  old  man  enables  me  to  bear  it." 

He  said  that  it  was  sad— very,  and  they  talked 


CIRCUMSTANCE  321 

awhile  of  Mr.  Fairthorne.  He  had  desired  Dr.  Soper 
to  continue  in  charge  when  Dr.  Archer  should  re- 
turn. The  doctor  was  distressed,  but  if  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne really  insisted  he  would  of  course  see  Dr. 
Archer  or  write  and  explain.  When  on  his  way  out 
he  met  Mary  and  said  how  deeply  he  regretted  this 
unfortunate  whim  of  her  uncle,  Mary  was  a  little 
indignant  and  a  good  deal  amused.  She  failed  to 
conceal  her  feelings  altogether,  and  said  that  it 
would  at  least  relieve  Dr.  Archer;  how  soon  would 
her  uncle  desire  to  change  his  nieces? 

"If,"  she  added,  "you  would  kindly  arrange  to 
have  him  change  that  gipsy  witch  you  would  oblige 
the  entire  family." 

The  doctor  said :  ' '  Quite  so,  quite ;  very  good  joke, 
Mary.  Can't  be  helped— very  hard,"  and  went 
away,  well  pleased  with  himself.  Soon  after  he  left 
the  house  Harry  Swanwick  came  in. 

"I  want  to  see  Uncle  John,"  he  said  to  Mary. 

"He  has  just  come  down,  I  think.  I  will  go  up 
with  you.  It  is  getting  rather  dramatic  here. 
Archer  is  dismissed." 

"Indeed!" 

"And  Soper  promoted.     The  gipsy—" 

"Gipsy,  Mary?" 

^  "Yes,  I  have  found  her  out.  That  is  where  the 
Oriental  look  comes  from.  Try  her  in  Romany.  I 
wish  I  knew  it. ' ' 

"How  absurd,  Mary!     Anything  else  new?" 

"No.  Sometimes  we  cross  swords.  If  it  gets  past 
endurance  I  talk  firmly  to  uncle.  He  is  fast  failing, 
but  to-day,  when  I  saw  him  in  his  bedroom,  he  was 

21 


322  CIRCUMSTANCE 

gay  and  sarcastic— his  old  self;  I  suppose  only  a 
doctor  can  explain  that." 

When  they  entered  the  library  Mrs.  Hunter  was 
at  the  window,  looking  over  papers. 

"Halloa,  Harry,"  said  Fairthorne.  "How  are 
you?  Sit  down.  Show  him  the  new  autographs." 

Mrs.  Hunter  rose. 

' '  Here  is  a  rare  letter  of  Cranmer  and  one  of  Mar- 
tin Bucer." 

Harry  had  not  the  most  dim  idea  who  Martin 
Bucer  might  be,  but  he  said  it  was  immensely  in- 
teresting. 

"I  have  to  thank  Lucretia  for  it;  a  fellow  in 
South  Street  had  it." 

"I  want,  Uncle  John,  to  talk  over  a  matter  of 
business."  As  Lucretia  made  no  sign  of  retiring, 
he  continued:  "I  must  see  you  alone." 

"Well,  Mary  may  go." 

"I  said  alone,  sir.     Pardon  me." 

"Lucretia  knows  where  everything  is.  I  can't 
do  without  her.  Go  on,  what  is  it?" 

"Then  I  must  write  to  you."     He  rose. 

"Oh,  damn  it!  Every  one  bullies  me.  I  never 
get  my  way." 

Lucretia,  rising,  said : 

"Mr.  Swan  wick,  you  are  quite  right.  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne is  wrong."  She  had  sat  still  only  to  annoy 
Harry  and  knew  very  well  that  she  should  hear  all 
that  might  be  said.  Mary  followed  her  out  of  the 
room. 

Then  Harry  told,  with  some  reserve,  what  he  knew 
about  Grace's  absence  and  the  state  of  affairs  in 
regard  to  the  Trust  Company. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  323 

"Well,  sell  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  suppose 
Grace  got  away  to  avoid  keeping  his  promise  to  me. ' ' 
This  seemed  to  Harry  so  absurd  as  to  be  hardly 
worth  disputing.  To  his  proposition  to  sell  in  small 
amounts,  Mr.  Fairthorne  said  testily: 

"No.     Sell  it  all,  at  once." 

"At  any  price?  You  will  ruin  the  market  and 
lose  a  good  deal  of  money  quite  needlessly." 

' '  Sell  it,  I  said ;  sell  it !  No  banker  shall  control 
my  private  affairs." 

"Very  well,  sir.  Write  me  an  order  to  sell. "  He 
did  so. 

"Archer  will  be  at  home  in  three  days  and  Pil- 
grim will  go  to  the  Continental  Hotel.  I  fear  he 
is  in  a  bad  way. ' ' 

"Well,  I  am  sorry.  He  bungled  things  badly. 
As  for  Dr.  Archer,  I  have  been  mending  ever  since  he 
went  away.  Soper  listens,  and  gives  some  weight 
to  my  opinion.  I  shall  make  no  change.  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter says  that  the  difference  is  surprising." 

"I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake,  but  it  is  your 
business  and  not  mine.  I  will  see  if  the  firm  has 
any  order  about  the  stock." 

It  proved  that  they  had  no  orders,  and  were  still 
absolutely  ignorant  as  to  where  Grace  could  be 
found.  After  ten  days  from  his  departure  letters 
would  find  him  at  Bedford.  Those  were  his  final 
directions.  The  stock  was  sold  at  sixty-five,  and 
the  timid  began  to  draw  out  their  deposits  from  the 
Trust  Company. 

After  Swanwick  had  gone  Mrs.  Hunter  reentered 
the  library  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne was  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  large  room,  his 


324  CIRCUMSTANCE 

hands  behind  his  back,  his  head  a  little  bent  for- 
ward. The  habit  and  the  attitude  had  been  frequent 
with  him  in  health  but  rare  of  late,  and  Lucretia 
was  surprised  by  the  quick  way  in  which  he  turned 
to  say: 

"File  with  the  autograph  of  Luther  the  corre- 
spondence and  vouchers." 

''Yes,  sir." 

"That  is  a  good  idea  of  yours  to  put  in  one  port- 
folio forged  autographs  of  interest.  See  that  scoun- 
drel in  South  Street,  and  buy  one  of  those  forged 
letters  of  my  grandfather — only  one." 

"He  promised  to  burn  them,  but  it  is  not  likely 
that  he  has  done  so.  I  will  see  him. ' ' 

"What  is  that  letter?" 

"It  is  for  me,  but  as  it  involves  a  very  grave 
question,  I  come  to  you,  sir,  as  to  a  friend,  as  to  one 
who  has  brought  peace  and  almost  happiness  into 
my  life." 

"What  is  it?     Don't  talk  twaddle." 

"I  do  not  see  how  I  can  leave  you." 

"Leave  me?  What  's  all  this?  You  can't  leave 
me.  Sit  down  and  explain  yourself." 

She  dropped  on  a  cushion  at  his  feet  and  kissed 
his  hand. 

"Take  it,  read  it.  It  offers  me  release  from  care, 
a  sufficient  income,  and  a  future  of  far-reaching  use- 
fulness. If  I  say  yes,  I  must  leave  you  in  the  au- 
tumn, and  lose — oh,  I  cannot  bear  it,  and  I  must — 
I  must — ' 

John  Fairthorne  had  preferences,  but  not  affec- 
tions. He  liked  Lucretia  for  a  variety  of  selfish  rea- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  325 

sons,  and  more  and  more  he  disliked  change.  He 
was  alarmed. 

"Where  are  my  glasses?     Read  it  to  me." 

Lucretia  let  fall  the  hand  she  had  taken  in  her 
grief,  and  wiped  away  what  stood  for  tears. 

"Ah!"  she  cried.  "If  I  am  like  a  hurt  child  at 
the  thought  of  leaving  you,  when  it  comes  to  a  final 
separation  what  shall  I  do?  I— I— will  try  to 
read  it." 

"Do,"  he  said.  As  to  her  life  and  her  grief,  he 
considered  neither  seriously. 

"'DEAR  MRS.  HUNTER:  The  trustees  of  the  Wellsburg 
School  for  Young  Women—' 

"Those  are  the  people  who  wrote  to  me  before. 
Oh,  it  is  long,  sir;  I  can  tell  you  the  contents.  It 
is  a  largely  endowed  institution.  They  speak  of  my 
success  in  New  England.  They  offer  me  twelve  hun- 
dred a  year  and  a  prospect  of  more.  There  are  other 
details  of  no  interest."  She  looked  up.  "What  am 
I  to  do?" 

John  Fairthorne  began  at  once  to  use  his  intelli- 
gence quite  coldly. 

"Are  you  satisfied  here?  You  get  twelve  hun- 
dred a  year,  and" — the  old  man  smiled — "a  few 
trifles  over." 

"How  could  I  be  other  than  satisfied,  but — " 

"Yes,  I  know.  If  I  die?  That  is  where  the  but 
comes  in.  I  want  you,  and  I  am  willing  to  pay.  I 
don't  want  affection.  I  don't  object  to  it.  I  want 
attention,  company,  intelligence.  You  give  them, 


326  CIRCUMSTANCE 

you  make  yourself  agreeable.  If  I  were  an  impres- 
sible old  fool  you  might  expect  more.  I  am  too  old 
to  make  an  ass  of  myself.  My  advice  is — don't! 
I  will  make  a  codicil  to  my  will  and  leave  you  thirty 
thousand  dollars.  Will  that  do?" 

She  said  he  was  "more  than  just,"  but  felt  that 
he  was  bargaining;  and  how  keen  he  was,  how  defi- 
nite !  She  rose  and  thanked  him  effusively.  It  was 
less  than  she  had  meant  to  get,  but,  after  all,  she 
had  not  yet  exhausted  her  resources.  He  had  made 
plain  that  he  was  not  enough  of  a  fool  to  marry  her ; 
nor  was  that  desirable  if  she  could  buy  autographs 
for  him,  and  pocket,  a  part,  and  live  a  year  or  two  as 
she  was  doing.  These  thoughts  went  swiftly  through 
her  mind  as  she  sat  by  him  and  varied  her  thanks, 
until  he  said:  "Well,  we  are  going  to  Edgewood 
shortly.  I  will  ask  Swanwick  to  draw  a  codicil  to 
my  will.  I  will  write  to-day. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hunter  did  not  like  this. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  your  family  will  not 
be  pleased.  Perhaps  some  other  lawyer?" 

"Nonsense!  What  has  my  family  to  do  with  it? 
Do  you  suppose  a  man  like  Swanwick  babbles  to  his 
wife  about  wills?  Write  now.  Ask  him  to  come 
and  see  me." 

She  was  far  from  comprehension  of  the  legal  code 
of  honor,  but  she  knew  when  not  to  persist  and  saw 
too  that  Fairthorne  was  tired.  When  presently  he 
took  up  a  book  she  sat  at  her  table  and  caressed  the 
cat,  wondering  how  she  should  deal  with  the  risks 
that  awaited  her  on  Pilgrim's  return. 

By  and  by  he  looked  up  from  the  book  he  had 


CIECUMSTANCE  327 

been  reading,  and  said :  "  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  this  closes  the  matter.  I  leave  you  the  money, 
and  you  promise  not  to  desert  me.  It  will  take  effect 
only  if  you  are  with  me  until  I — until  something 
happens." 

This  was  not  meant  by  Lucretia  to  be  in  the  bond, 
but  she  promptly  replied : 

"I  so  understood  it,  sir.  You  are  more  than  good 
to  me." 

Next  day  Harry  Swanwick  received  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne's  order  to  add  the  codicil.  He  made  no  com- 
ment, but  sat  down  quietly  and  added  it  in  due  form. 

"It  will  need,  sir,  two  witnesses,"  he  said.  The 
old  man  rejoined  that  of  course  he  would  see  to  that, 
and  the  will  was  replaced  in  the  safe  in  the  far  cor- 
ner of  the  library. 

When  from  time  to  time  Lucretia  reminded  Mr. 
Fairthorne  that  the  codicil  was  unsigned  he  showed 
a  certain  amount  of  annoyance  and  said  there  was 
time  enough.  Yes,  Dr.  Soper  would  be  a  proper 
witness.  Mrs.  Hunter  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  the 
more  so  because  once  he  appeared  to  have  forgotten 
it  altogether,  and  was  growing  less  and  less  his  old, 
satirical  self.  At  last  he  left  the  will  in  a  drawer, 
but  would  do  no  more.  Anything  that  involved  an- 
ticipations of  death  for  him  was  disagreeable. 

Mrs.  Hunter  resolved  upon  a  definitive  move. 
The  will,  in  a  sealed  package,  still  lay  ready  in  the 
table  drawer.  Until  recently  such  carelessness  as  to 
leave  it  out  of  the  safe  would  have  been  strange  to 
its  maker.  The  days  went  on,  and  one  morning,  see- 
ing him  in  good  condition,  she  said : 


328  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Mr.  Knell  wood  will  be  here  to-day  at  noon,  and 
I  have  asked  Dr.  Soper  to  come  in  at  that  hour. 
They  will  be  able  to  witness  the  codicil."  He  was 
apt  on  alternate  days  to  be  in  better  possession  of 
his  faculties. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "get  it  out  of  the  safe.  I  am 
tired  of  it." 

"It  is  here,"  she  returned,  putting  the  package 
on  the  table.  It  was  now  close  to  twelve,  and,  to  Mrs. 
Hunter's  annoyance,  Margaret  Swanwick  and  Mary 
came  in.  They  spoke  to  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  began 
to  talk  to  their  uncle  of  the  children  and  the  country. 
Yes,  he  was  going  in  two  or  three  days.  Kitty  was 
to  put  the  house  in  order.  This  amused  Margaret, 
as  Kitty  had  a  talent  for  disorder  which  was  very 
well  recognized  in  the  family.  She  laughed  as  she 
said: 

"Who  is  to  put  Kit  in  order?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Mary.  "Madge  will  not  come  to 
us  until  June,  uncle." 

"Is  that  so?"  He  expressed  no  regret.  "That 
fellow  Grace  has  bought  the  Gray  house  next  to  his 
farm.  They  wanted  too  much  for  it.  He  has  al- 
tered it,  I  hear. ' ' 

"An  agreeable  neighbor,"  said  Mary.  "Ah,  here 
is  Mr.  Knellwood." 

He  spoke  pleasantly  to  all,  and  sat  down,  a  large 
figure  in  his  clerical  garb.  Mrs.  Hunter,  a  little 
apart,  was  eager  for  the  women  to  go. 

Fairthorne  began  to  talk  in  his  better  manner, 
glad  of  all  this  company,  and  especially  of  Knell- 
wood's  visit. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  329 

"Well,"  he  said,  "are  you  fit  to  go  back  to  what 
you  call  work?  By  the  way,  here  is  a  letter  of 
Bucer  's.  He  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  your  prayer- 
book  of  1549,  or  was  it  1552  ?  What  a  mess  you  fel- 
lows are  making  of  it !  I  try  to  twist  up  Katherine's 
wits  about  it,  but  she  says  I  am  wicked  and  that  you 
know  best.  You  can't  tangle  Kitty's  wits.  She  has 
the  simplicity  of  the  mindless.  A  woman  wants  to 
cushion  her  faith  comfortably  on  a  church  or  a  man. 
This  time  it  appears  to  be  a  man.  Take  care, 
rector." 

"Miss  Morrow  might  have — I  hope  has — wiser 
counselors  than  I." 

"Apparently  she  thinks  not.  I  asked  her  yester- 
day to  clear  my  head  about  'the  godly  consideration 
of  election'  and  that  Xlllth  Article.  I  hope  she  has 
read  them,  but  you  seem  to  have  sadly  neglected 
her  education." 

Knellwood  laughed.  "You  are  not  enough  in 
earnest  to  get  a  fight  out  of  me  to-day." 

"Let  him  try  me,"  said  Madge. 

"Not  I.  You  are  disappointing,  Knellwood.  I 
am  in  fine  order  for  a  battle  and  my  spiritual  neu- 
trality ought  to  make  me  logically  valuable  to  the 
positive.  I  am  an  indiff erentist. " 

"For  shame!"  cried  Mary. 

"Not  even  an  agnostic,"  he  went  on,  unscrupu- 
lously pleased  to  shock  the  rector  of  St.  Agnes 's. 

"But  why,  uncle,"  asked  Madge,  "do  you  keep 
your  pew  in  Christ  Church?" 

"Because— I  was  predestined  by  my  great-grand- 
father." 


330  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Knellwood  shook  his  head. 

"Ah,  the  letter  interests  you.  Here  is  one  of 
Luther's." 

"We  had  done  far  better  without  him,"  said 
Knellwood.  "We  owe  him  nothing  but  confusion." 

"Did  you  ever  notice,"  said  Margaret,  "the  re- 
semblance to  Luther  in  the  face  of  young  Blount  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  Knellwood.  "I  like  the  boy,  and  I 
should  be  sorry  to  think  he  looked  like  Luther.  By 
the  by,  he  has  gone  to  Bedford  for  the  summer." 

"Yes,"  said  Madge;  "and  with  Mr.  Grace  away 
you  must  be  quite  lonely  in  Pine  Street." 

"I  miss  them.  I  came  here  to  thank  you,  Mr. 
Fairthorne,  for  all  manner  of  kindnesses.  I  should 
have  come  before,  but  I  have  not  been  very  strong. ' ' 

"I  fancy  Miss  Kitty  has  been  the  more  active 
agent,"  said  Fairthorne. 

' '  I  exact  my  share  of  thanks, ' '  said  Mary,  quickly. 
"You  look  far  better  than  before  your  illness.  Dr. 
Archer  should  be  proud  of  you.  He  has  been  de- 
laying his  return,  but  now  we  may  look  for  him 
at  any  time,  so  Harry  says,  or  was  it  to  you  he 
wrote,  Madge  ? ' '  She,  too,  had  heard  from  him,  but 
of  that  she  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Hunter's  knowledge 
of  the  mail  matter  which  came  to  the  house  made  it 
needless  to  pretend  to  conceal  such  trifles  from  her. 
But  the  ostrich  attitude  does  at  all  events  satisfy  the 
ostrich. 

Dr.  Soper  failed  to  come  as  he  had  promised,  and 
when,  after  further  chat,  Knellwood  and  the  rest 
went  away  together,  Mrs.  Hunter  had  lost  another 
chance. 


XXXV 

WO  days  later  Sydney  Archer  came 
home,  and  having  arranged  for  Pil- 
grim's comfort  at  his  hotel  found  time 
to  consider  his  own  affairs.  He  wrote 
a  dozen  notes  or  letters  to  thank  the 
friends  who  had  cared  for  patients  and  hospital 
wards  during  his  long  absence.  He  saw  one  or  two 
people  who  called  for  immediate  attention,  and  left 
himself  free  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  pick  up  and 
arrange  the  many  threads  of  the  life  of  a  man  who 
was  a  physician,  a  teacher,  and  an  investigator.  He 
found  time  at  length,  after  luncheon,  for  a  visit 
which  he  felt  he  must  make,  and  would  very  gladly 
have  avoided.  Among  his  letters  was  a  civil  note 
from  Dr.  Soper,  expressing  his  regret  at  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne's  decision  to  insist  on  the  continuance  of  his, 
Soper 's,  attendance,  etc. 

Archer  was  a  little  relieved  to  escape  the  constant 
battle  with  Mrs.  Hunter  and  the  sense  of  being  re- 
sponsible and  yet  without  control.  But,  being  hu- 
man and  a  doctor,  the  idea  of  having  been  displaced 
by  a  man  of  as  little  intellect  as  Soper  was  unpleas- 
ant, and  to  owe  defeat  to  Mrs.  Hunter  made  it  seem 
far  worse.  Mary  had  written  very  forcibly  of  the 
state  of  things  in  John  Fairthorne's  house,  and  had 
331 


332  CIRCUMSTANCE 

asked  what  was  to  be  done,  since  Mrs.  Hunter  man- 
aged Dr.  Soper  and  there  was  no  longer  an  inter- 
ested intelligence  at  hand  to  stand  between  a  failing 
old  man  and  a  woman  without  scruples.  Archer 
smiled  as  he  recalled  his  last  important  interview 
with  the  secretary.  And  now  he  was  out  of  the  fight. 

He  found  Dr.  Soper  at  home,  and  was  cordially 
welcomed.  Archer  began : 

"I  had  heard  of  Mr.  Fairthorne's  desire  to  change, 
and  on  my  return  found  your  note.  I  might  as 
usual  say  a  civil  word  and  drop  the  matter,  but  these 
people  are  old  friends,  and—" 

Soper  interrupted: 

"Pray  do  not  trouble  yourself.  It  was  quite  in- 
considerate, quite.  I  fully  enter  into  your  feelings, 
but,  after  all,  what  can  one  do  ?  These  things  hap- 
pen to  all  of  us." 

"The  old  fool,"  thought  Archer.  What  he  said 
was: 

"You  misunderstand  me.  I  want  to  say  that  Mr. 
Fairthorne  is  under  the  control  of  this  Mrs.  Hunter. 
You  must  have  seen  it,  and  perhaps  know,  too,  that 
to  order  anything  for  Mr.  Fairthorne  is  one  thing, 
to  be  sure  that  your  directions  are  carried  out  is 
quite  another." 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  have  experienced  that  diffi- 
culty. I  have  never  made  the  least  suggestion  that 
was  not  received,  I  may  say,  with  enthusiasm.  A 
very  remarkable  woman,  very." 

"On  that  I  think  we  may  agree,  but  I  wish  to 
say,  also,  as  a  friend  of  the  Fairthornes,  that  you 
ought  to  know  how  most  of  his  relatives  feel  in  re- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  333 

gard  to  Mrs.  Hunter.  If  my  long  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Fairthorne's  case  will  help  you,  that  too  is  a  part  of 
my  purpose.  It  is  in  some  respects  an  unusual  case. ' ' 

"I  cannot  say  that  it  appears  so  to  me.  When 
did  you  get  back,  and  how  is  Mr.  Pilgrim?"  He 
did  not  refer  to  the  family  question  or  ask  about 
Fairthorne's  case.  Archer  saw  that,  if  needed,  he 
certainly  was  not  wanted.  He  rose,  saying : 

"I  shall  call  on  Mr.  Fairthorne  to-day.  I  must 
tell  him  what  Pilgrim  cannot  as  yet  do  about  his  Vir- 
ginia lands.  Is  he  well  enough  to  talk?  Clear 
enough  ? ' ' 

"Clear  enough?  He  is  as  well  as  you  or  any  one. 
He  has  been  improving  most  remarkably.  He  is 
buying  autographs  and  books  and  even  changing  his 
will."  When  the  doctor  said  this  he  suddenly  re- 
membered that  Mrs.  Hunter  had  asked  him  not  to 
speak  of  having  been  asked  to  be  a  witness.  Con- 
scious of  indiscretion,  he  babbled  on,  talking  rapidly. 
Archer  ceased  to  listen.  He  had  seen  the  conscious 
look  of  embarrassment.  Had  things  gone  so  far 
that  Lucretia  was  influential  and  interested  in 
changes  in  the  old  man's  will  ?  What  did  this  mean ? 
How  far  would  it  go  ?  For  here  was  a  woman  with- 
out conscience  and  here  were  possibilities  of  unlim- 
ited mischief. 

Soper  went  on,  relating  at  length  "a  most  curious 
case,  quite  unique,  quite."  Archer  was  aware  of 
assisting  with  "yes"  and  "indeed,"  but  his  mind 
was  elsewhere. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  as  he  rose,  "do  you  really 
think  Mr.  Fairthorne  competent  to  make  a  will?" 


334  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Dr.  Soper  replied : 

"Competent?  Yes,  of  course;  but  perhaps  I 
should  not  have  mentioned  the  matter."  He  forgot 
to  ask  Archer  not  to  repeat  his  imprudence. 

Sydney  Archer  was  a  man  apt  to  act  with  deci- 
sion. He  went  from  Dr.  Soper 's  to  the  Fairthorne 
house,  and  stood  a  moment  in  thought  on  the  white 
marble  step.  Then  he  rang,  and  had  a  cheerful  wel- 
come from  the  old  black  servant.  He  went  into  the 
parlor,  and  was  about  to  send  up  his  card  when  Miss 
Fairthorne,  hearing  his  voice,  came  in.  There  were 
the  ordinary  greetings  which  disguise  so  much,  and 
Miss  Mary  said:  "Yes,  come  up-stairs.  My  uncle  is 
not  very  well,  but  he  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  We 
are  all  more  sorry  than  I  can  make  clear  to  you  that 
Mrs.  Hunter  succeeded  in  putting  Dr.  Soper  in 
charge,  but  we  are  more  powerless  than  ever." 

As  they  entered  the  library  Mrs.  Hunter  quickly 
threw  a  portfolio  upon  the  mass  of  papers  on  the 
table.  The  doctor,  in  this  hostile  atmosphere,  became 
instantly  curious  and  observant,  and  noted  the  haste 
of  Lucretia's  movement.  That  lady  retired  to  a 
corner  and  appeared  to  be  deep  in  a  journal,  while 
Mary,  excusing  herself,  left  Archer  to  talk  with  her 
uncle. 

"Last  night  I  brought  Luke  Pilgrim  back  with  me. 
He  is  in  a  rather  critical  state. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hunter  sat  still.  At  last  it  had  come.  The 
codicil  was  not  signed;  Mr.  Fairthorne 's  mind  was 
uncertain ;  he  would  and  would  not ;  was  she  strong 
enough  to  face  boldly  a  possible  disclosure?  What 
would  he  do  ?  She  listened  intently  as  Archer  went 


CIECUMSTANCE  335 

on  to  mention  where  Pilgrim  was  staying,  and  then 
all  that  the  latter  at  present  desired  to  have  said. 
Masters  would  remain  at  the  mine  and  look  af- 
ter Mr.  Fairthorne 's  and  Pilgrim's  interests.  In  a 
week  or  two  Mr.  Pilgrim  might  be  able  to  spend  a 
few  days  in  the  country  at  Edgewood.  He  could 
then  put  Mr.  Fairthorne  in  fuller  possession  of  his 
views  as  to  developing  their  joint  properties. 

Long  before  he  had  come  to  an  end  Archer  saw 
that  Fairthorne  had  ceased  to  attend,  and  therefore 
cut  his  statement  short.  Mr.  Fairthorne  sat  up,  and 
said:  ''About  joint  properties — what  is  that?  We 
have  no  adjoining  lands.  And  speak  louder,  Syd- 
ney. Your  voice  is  indistinct.  You  Southern  peo- 
ple never  half  open  your  mouths  when  you  talk." 
The  old  man  was  fast  losing  his  hearing.  Archer 
began  to  explain.  ' '  Oh,  confound  it !  Don 't  roar 
at  me.  I  am  not  deaf,  or  what  Pilgrim  calls  'deef.'  ' 

He  was  puzzled  by  Archer 's  statement  of  the  cause 
of  quarrel  with  the  squatters  and  said  it  was  all  a 
mistake,  and  that  Mrs.  Hunter  knew  about  it,  and 
must  see  Pilgrim  and  get  it  cleared  up. 

Archer,  having  done  his  best  to  make  matters  clear, 
got  up  to  go,  grieved  at  the  mental  failure  of  his  old 
friend.  Mr.  Fairthorne  said:  "Why,  Sydney,  you 
have  not  felt  my  pulse." 

"It  is  not  necessary. "  As  he  passed  the  table  he 
said  he  wanted  a  bit  of  blank  paper,  and  lifted  the 
portfolio  to  look  for  it.  What  Lucretia  had  desired 
to  hide  he  saw — the  will  of  John  Fairthorne. 

Mrs.  Hunter  knew  at  once  that  he  had  seen  the 
will,  but  not,  of  course,  what  Soper  had  revealed. 


336  CIRCUMSTANCE 

He  took  the  scrap  of  paper  and  wrote  on  it :  "  I  want 
to  talk  with  you.  Meet  me  at  my  house  at  four." 
She  took  the  paper  and  read  it  as  she  followed  him, 
about  to  say  no,  when  she  reflected  that  it  might 
mean  a  message  of  moment.  It  would  be  best  to 
have  it  out,  whatever  it  was.  She  said  she  could 
be  there  at  four,  as  Mr.  Fairthorne  was  unable  to 
drive— yes,  at  four— and  left  him  as  he  went  down 
the  stairway,  smiling.  It  was  war.  She  had  used 
his  absence  to  effect  her  purposes;  now  it  was  his 
turn.  Why  had  she  agreed  to  meet  him  ? 

"There  is  something  wrong  about  the  woman's 
past.  What  is  it?  She  should  have  asked  me  to 
call  here  if  I  desired  to  talk  to  her.  She  did  not. 
She  rose  to  that  fly. ' ' 

When,  that  afternoon,  Mrs.  Hunter  found  herself 
alone  in  the  little  library,  which  was  also  his  consult- 
ing-room, she  looked  about  her  with  a  momentary 
curiosity.  The  crowded  book-shelves,  the  accumula- 
tion of  journals  on  chair  and  table,  indicated  the  stu- 
dent, and  the  spurs,  whips,  hunting-crops,  guns,  and 
rods  told  how  the  man  amused  himself  in  his  days 
of  leisure.  A  few  books  of  verse,  two  or  three  etch- 
ings, a  rare  volume  or  two,  the  book-lover's  cher- 
ished record  of  good  luck,  might  have  added  know- 
ledge of  the  man  who  had  asked  her  hither.  Mrs. 
Hunter  sat  for  the  few  minutes  of  waiting  deep  in 
thought. 

"I  am  a  little  late,"  said  Archer,  as  he  entered. 
"Pray  pardon  me." 

"Oh,  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  amuse  one's  self 
here." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  337 

"As  a  substitute  I  fear  that  you  will  hardly  find 
me  that — I  mean  amusing.  I  asked  you  here  because 
we  are  assured  of  freedom  from  interruption  as  we 
are  not  at  Mr.  Fairthorne's." 

"Certainly,  I  so  understood  it.     Pray  go  on." 

He  remained  standing  by  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  did  not  know  clearly,  or  did  not  until  of  late 
suspect,  what  you  meant  to  secure  during  your  stay 
at  Mr.  Fairthorne's." 

' '  And  you  think  you  know  now  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  do.  From  the  time  you  got  a  hold  on  Mr. 
Fairthorne  you  very  needlessly  antagonized  me.  I 
say  needlessly  because  if  you  had  merely  nattered 
and  made  comfortable  a  weak  old  man  I  should  not 
have  cared  what  reasonable  or  more  than  reasonable 
pay  you  got  out  of  the  business.  But  to  see  my 
orders  canceled  or  changed  was  a  thing  no  conscien- 
tious physician  could  endure." 

"And  yet  you  stood  it  pretty  long." 

"I  did,  and  for  good  cause." 

"Before  we  go  on,  Dr.  Archer,  allow  me  to  say 
that  I  have  a  real  affection  for  Mr.  Fairthorne.  I 
owe  him  much.  Thinking  as  I  do,  how  could  I  see 
him  the  victim  of  useless  drugs,  when  I  felt  that  I 
could  insure  health  by  simpler  means?" 

"You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  believe  you,"  he 
said.  ' '  Frankly  speaking,  I  do  not  believe  you ;  but 
if  you  think  this  answers  me  personally,  let  me  ask 
why  did  you  continually  go  out  of  your  way  to 
harass  and  annoy  Miss  Fairthorne  ?  You  have  with 
as  little  reason  made  her  life  unhappy." 

"If,"  she  said,  rising,  "this  is  all  you  can  give  to 


338  CIRCUMSTANCE 

explain  your  very  singular  request  that  I  meet  you 
here,  I  may  as  well  go." 

"No,"  he  returned,  "that  was  mere  introductory 
matter.  You  were  quite  right  to  decline  to  answer 
me.  It  was  idle  curiosity  on  my  part.  I  am,  how- 
ever, as  a  man — may  I  say  as  a  psychologist? — inter- 
y  ested  in  you.  The  problem  is  why  an  able  woman, 
wanting  something,  should  take  pleasure  in  putting 
obstacles  in  her  own  way." 

Mrs.  Hunter,  at  ease,  well  dressed,  handsome,  was 
never  so  near  to  liking  Archer.  She  was  grateful 
for  being  classed  as  peculiar.  She  smiled  as  she  re- 
sumed her  seat.  ' '  Perhaps  some  day  I  may  tell  you. 
But  what  next?  You  are  interesting;  you  never 
were  before. ' ' 

"Thanks.  In  my  little  battle  with  you  I  have 
been  worsted."  He  laughed. 

"People  who  cross  me  do,  as  a  rule,  get  the  worst 
of  it.  Dr.  Soper  is  far  more  manageable.  My 
views  are  his  views." 

"That  is  certainly  convenient,  but  whether  in  the 
end  you  will  be  as  well  off  as  if  you  had  let  me 
alone  may  be  doubted.  You  have  made  a  friend  of 
small  value  and  a  foe  of  some  force." 

Mrs.  Hunter,  toying  with  her  parasol,  said : 

"Will  you  kindly  explain?  You  did  not  bring  me 
here  merely  to  sympathize  with  a  doctor  who  has  lost 
a  valuable  patient  or  to  ask  my  pity  for  a  young 
girl  in  whom  he  is,  shall  we  say,  interested. ' ' 

"Stop,  Mrs.  Hunter.  I  cannot  keep  you  from  say- 
ing whatever  ill-bred  impertinence  you  may  choose 
to  bring  into  our  talk,  but  what  I  hold  in  reserve 


CIRCUMSTANCE  339 

concerns  you  alone.  You  will  do  well  to  listen.  Mr. 
Fairthorne  has  made  arrangements  to  alter  his  will. 
Dr.  Soper  was  to  be  one  witness.  Mr.  Fairthorne 
hesitates.  You  are  the  person  who  will  profit." 

A  part  of  this  was  pure  inference.  The  resolute 
stillness  with  which  she  listened  strengthened  his 
belief  that  he  was  correct. 

"What  next?"  she  said. 

"Only  this:  if  John  Fairthorne  has  been  led  to 
leave  you  any  very  large  amount  of  money,  you  will 
never  get  it." 

"Why  not?"  she  cried,  sharply. 

"If,"  he  continued,  "you  are  left  a  moderate 
legacy  you  may  be  allowed  the  plunder." 

"Really!  This  passes  belief.  If  I  was  imperti- 
nent you  have  matched  me. ' ' 

"No,"  he  said;  "this  is  pure  business  and  very 
pertinent.  Come  now,  frankly,  how  much  are  you 
to  get?" 

She  saw  by  this  time  that  more  was  meant  than  a 
verbal  duel.  The  buttons  were  off  the  foils. 

"Suppose,  first,  you  show  your  own  hand,"  she 
said,  quite  coolly.  "This  may  be  pure  bluff." 

"Well,  we  stand  thus:  if  you  are  to  have  too 
much,  enough  to  injure  others,  I  can  easily  show  that 
Mr.  Fairthorne  is  now  unfit  to  make  or  mend  a  will. 
Dr.  Soper  will  desert  you  when  the  family  make  a 
fight.  If  your  plunder  be  moderate  I  will  be  silent, 
and  no  one  will  interfere.  Of  course,  I  speak  only 
as  to  probability. ' ' 

"You  might  not  find  it  easy." 

"No,  quite  true;  but  a  searching  history  of  your 


340  CIRCUMSTANCE 

life  in  that  house  would  be  part  of  the  proceedings, 
and  a  little  study  of  your  past  life  might  make  things 
uncomfortable.  Am  I  clear?" 

"Yes,  perfectly.  I  expect  Mr.  Fairthorne  to  leave 
me  thirty  thousand  dollars,  and  little  enough. ' ' 

"No,  it  is  rather  large,  but  may  pass.  It  pretty 
nearly  reaches  the  limit." 

"Indeed!"  she  said,  and  stood  up.  "The  limit, 
indeed!  And  you  set  a  limit  to  what  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne may  do !  He  will  be  amazed !  You,  and  the 
family  which  has  treated  me  with  contempt.  Me ! 
I,  who  am  not  good  enough  for  their  miserable  little 
provincial,  antique,  stiff -backed  society !  They  should 
thank  me  for  what  I  do  not  take.  You  think  this 
time  I  am  beaten.  Shall  you  feel  so  when  you  see 
in  the  papers,  'Married,  on  blank  date,  Mrs.  Hunter, 
etc.,  to,  etc.'  What  will  they  give  me  not  to  do  it?" 
She  threw  up  her  hands  and  laughed  outright,  in 
evident  enjoyment  of  the  situation.  Archer  said 
quietly:  "Admirably  played,  Mrs.  Hunter,  but  I 
think  we  understand  one  another.  I  am  grieved  that 
there  yet  remains  much  that  concerns  you  which  I 
cannot  at  present  deal  with,  and  do  not  want  to  if 
I  can  help  it."  He  wished  to  leave  with  her  the 
belief  that  there  must  be  in  her  past  that  which  he 
knew  or  could  learn. 

"Let  me  in  turn  congratulate  you,  Dr.  Archer. 
That  was  fairly  well  done,"  she  said,  languidly,  as 
if  tired  of  the  discussion.  "At  any  time  I  am  at 
your  disposal  for  a  dull  account  of  a  New  England 
school-teacher. ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "you  and  I,  Mrs.  Hunter, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  341 

are  enemies.  As  you  are  a  woman,  what  I  really 
think — all  I  think  of  you — must  remain  unsaid. 
Certainly,  Mrs.  Hunter's  account  of  herself  might  be 
entertaining.  I  hope  to  find  some  franker  biogra- 
pher. "  As  he  spoke  she  stood  facing  him,  something 
sinister  in  the  wide  eyes'  fixity. 

' '  Poor  me  !  How  important  I  am  becoming !  A 
comparative  biography  by  several  authors  would  be 
novel  and  interesting.  Add,  then,  the  autobiog- 
raphy. I  wish  you  joy  of  the  search."  She  was 
aware  how  perilously  near  he  had  been  to  one  who 
knew  her  thoroughly,  but  she  never  had  lacked  cour- 
age, and  she  meant  at  once  to  front  this  new  dan- 
ger and  to  learn  where  she  stood. 

Archer  smiled  as  he  played  with  his  watch-chain. 
A  duel  of  words  amused  him.  He  could  not  resist 
the  desire  to  retort,  sometimes  an  unwise  desire. 

' '  That  idea  of  a  comparative  biography  strikes  me 
as  promising." 

"Thanks  for  the  rather  adulterated  compliment, 
Dr.  Archer,  and  good  afternoon.  We  seem  to  have 
got  to  an  end. ' ' 

Archer  opened  the  door,  and  saw  her  enter  John 
Fairthorne's  carriage.  He  went  back  to  his  library, 
feeling  that  he  had  not  been  eminently  victorious. 
What  did  her  threat  mean?  Was  it  merely  an  idle 
one?  John  Fairthorne  was  a  proud  man,  un- 
likely to  marry  in  haste  an  unknown  woman,  but 
then  the  power  of  a  woman  over  a  man  is  always  an 
unknown  or  incalculable  factor  in  the  equation  of 
life.  There  was.  however,  the  mere  fact  of  the  out- 
spoken threat  as  against  the  chance  of  occurrence 


342  CIRCUMSTANCE 

of  the  thing  feared,  or  as  against  the  probability  of 
its  being  seriously  entertained.  If  this  contingent 
event  were  probable  she  would  have  kept  it  to  her- 
self. He  was  wrong.  Mrs.  Hunter  liked  the  show 
of  power  almost  as  well  as  the  reality  of  power.  She 
had  been  thinking  of  marriage  as  being  still  a  pos- 
sible move  in  her  game  until  Fairthorne  had  spoken 
so  plainly.  Time  was  all  essential  to  her  now,  for 
the  codicil  remained  unsigned,  and  in  two  days  there 
would  be  the  dull  country  life  of  Delaware  County, 
and  more  or  less  separation  from  her  brother,  who 
/  had  lately  been  drinking  enough  to  show  ill  effects 
v  on  the  pink-and-cream  tints  of  his  face. 

Perplexed  by  the  needless  difficulties  this  man's 
weaknesses  put  in  her  way,  she  again  asked  herself 
why  she  did  not  abandon  him.  She  had  in  no  other 
case  failed  to  put  her  own  interests  first.  Had  she 
troubled  herself  with  self-analysis  she  might  have 
learned  that  when,  as  a  young  woman,  the  care  of 
the  boy  brother  fell  upon  her  she  became  the  slave 
of  an  instinct  which  was  as  near  to  that  of  mater- 
nity as  was  possible  for  Lucretia  Hunter.  His  per- 
sonal beauty  pleased  her  as  time  went  on,  and  she 
dreamed  ambitions  for  him  and  for  herself;  but  of 
late  years  the  wilful  boy  had  become  the  weak  and 
wilful  man,  and  a  certain  cunning  often  seen  in  the 
feeble  invited  to  acts  of  which  his  intelligence  could 
not  predict  the  results. 


XXXVI 

HE  household  of  the  Fairthornes  re- 
moved to  the  country  with  far  less  fric- 
tion than  usual,  as  Mary  reluctantly 
confessed  to  Madge.  Kitty  was  here 
and  there,  apparently  busy,  but  in 
every  one 's  way,  as  useless  and  persistent  as  a  house- 
fly  in  August.  No  one  of  the  distracted  household 
was  entirely  pleased  at  the  change,  least  of  all  its 
master.  He  went  because  it  was  his  habit,  but  such 
changes  are  like  too  evident  mile-stones  to  please 
the  old;  they  mark  the  passing  of  relentless  years. 
The  ample  house  of  his  grandfather  at  Edgewood 
contented  Fairthorne,  a  man  always  averse  to  altered 
conditions  in  his  surroundings.  He  had  long  since 
satisfied  his  personal  wants  by  building  a  library 
on  the  second  floor,  next  to  his  bedroom,  and  by  en- 
larging the  wide  two-story  veranda  on  which  these 
apartments  opened.  The  number  of  books  he  took 
with  him  and  the  quantity  of  valuable  autographs, 
as  to  which  he  troubled  every  one,  usually  made  this 
annual  exodus  a  source  of  exasperation  to  all  con- 
cerned. 

"She  is  certainly  capable,  Madge,"  said  Mary. 
"And  do  you  know,  dear,  I  sometimes  think  Uncle 
John  is  afraid  of  her,  just  a  little  afraid?" 
343 


344  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Why  should  he  be?"  said  Madge,  thoughtfully. 
"Harry  has  terrified  me  with  the  idea  that  she  may 
make  him  marry  her.  You  very  heroic  people  think 
money  of  no  moment.  "What  are  you  laughing  at? 
When  you  have  children  of  your  own  you  will  not 
laugh  about  money." 

"I  assure  you  I  was  not  thinking  of  Uncle  John's 
money.  I  was  laughing  at  the  idea  of  Aunt  Lu- 
cretia.  Oh,  don't  be  alarmed,  dear.  Dr.  Archer 
thinks  it  will  never  be." 

"Oh,  Dr.  Archer 'thinks'?" 

' '  Yes, ' '  returned  Mary,  somewhat  reluctantly.  ' '  He 
has  had  a  rather  singular  talk  with  that  woman." 

"Indeed!    What  was  it?    Do  tell  me  all  about  it. " 

These  two  sisters  were  so  near  to  one  another,  so 
habitually  intimate,  that  each  at  times  found  it  hard 
to  safeguard  thoughts  she  did  not  mean  to  reveal ; 
a  word,  a  phrase,  a  little  hesitation,  the  least  appear- 
ance of  want  of  the  customary  frankness,  was  enough 
to  betray  her.  They  understood  this,  and  preserved 
at  need  a  respectful  appearance  of  lack  of  interest  or 
of  inability  to  apprehend. 

When  Mary  spoke  of  Archer,  Madge  knew  that 
her  sister  had  said  more  than  she  meant  to  say. 
When  her  curiosity  had  a  little  overcome  her  discre- 
tion, Mary  had  replied  that  of  course  she  would  tell 
her  all  about  it,  but  that  now  she  really  must  go  out 
and  attend  to  certain  requirements  of  summer  cos- 
tume. 

"I  shall  stay  here  to-night,  dear.  Then  we  can 
talk." 

"I  think  I  can  wait  so  long,  but  I  hate  to  starve 


CIRCUMSTANCE  345 

my  curiosity."  Madge  did  not  question  Mary,  and, 
although  very  curious,  said  no  word  of  Archer.  As 
Mary  prepared  to  leave,  her  sister  said : 

"Kitty  was  in  town  to-day.  I  was  sure  that  three 
days  at  Edgewood  would  satisfy  her  desires  for  the 
country." 

"I  shall  go  out  to  Uncle  John  to-morrow.  I  do 
hope  you  will  not  wait  until  June  to  join  us." 

"Ask  Harry,  dear." 

"I  wish  you  could  come  now;  together,  we  should 
rout  that  woman."  She  went  out,  distinctly  recog- 
nizing the  fact  that  Madge  had  been  kindly  discreet. 
For  Mary  to  have  been  entirely  frank  with  her  sis- 
ter would  have  been  to  admit  an  increasing  intimacy 
with  Sydney  Archer  which  she  hesitated  to  confess 
even  to  Mary  Fairthorne. 

The  day  before  the  Fairthornes  left  for  the  country 
Mrs.  Hunter  secured  Mr.  Fairthorne 's  signature  to 
the  codicil.  She  doubly  enjoyed  her  victory.  Syd- 
ney Archer  had  called  to  report  once  more  upon 
Luke  Pilgrim's  condition,  and  to  say  for  him  that 
very  soon  he  would  be  able  to  set  a  time  for  his  visit 
to  Edgewood.  He  hoped  then  to  arrange  for  the 
permanent  management  of  their  coal  property.  Mrs. 
Hunter  was  unprepared  for  this  new  embarrass- 
ment, or  rather  for  its  nearness.  She  had  hoped  for 
more  time,  and  was  aware  that  she  could  not  let  Pil- 
grim come  to  Edgewood  without  some  preliminary 
arrangements. 

Fairthorne  said  he  should  be  glad  to  see  the  engi- 
neer, and  the  sooner  the  better.  Archer  thought  it 
certain  he  could  come  in  a  few  days;  it  was  purely 


346  CIRCUMSTANCE 

a  question  of  health.  As  Archer  rose,  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne,  pleased  to  have  seen  him,  said : 

"Do  not  go,  Sydney.  I  miss  you.  I  am  pretty 
lonely  at  times. ' '  There  was  that  in  his  voice  which 
moved  Archer.  He  sat  down  again,  and  began  to 
amuse  Fairthorne  with  his  experiences  on  the  Kan- 
awha.  Next,  they  fell  to  discussing  Pilgrim's  sin- 
gular mingling  of  theoretic  mysticism  and  practical 
common  sense.  The  old  man  said  shrewdly  that 
Mary  Fairthorne  was  not  unlike  that,  and  added : 

"I  used  to  fancy  there  was  something  between 
Mary  and  Pilgrim,  a  kind  of  transcendental  flirta- 
tion, I  suppose,  or— was  it  Katherine?  I  cannot 
remember  anything  nowadays.  Who  was  it,  Lu- 
cretia  ? ' ' 

Lucretia  said,  smiling,  "perhaps  both,"  but  that 
she  had  not  been  there  then,  and  no  doubt  Dr. 
Archer  would  know.  He  made  no  reply,  and  Fair- 
thorne said : 

"You  have  been  here  very  seldom  of  late,  Archer. 
You  do  not  ask  how  I  feel.  Doctors  are  getting 
to  be  too  scientific.  Dr.  Soper  comes,  but  he  is  sopo- 
rific." He  laughed  applause  at  his  well-worn  joke 
on  the  name  and  repeated  the  jest  over  and  over. 

Mrs.  Hunter  listened,  a  little  anxious,  and  Archer 
with  more  than  a  little  pain.  He  checked  him  by 
saying  that  Pilgrim  would  himself  write  and  set 
a  day. 

"Well,"  said  Fairthorne,  "tell  him  to  come  soon. 
I  am  pretty  feeble  myself;  leaves  falling,  falling; 
sort  of  damned  unpleasant  personal  autumn.  Mrs. 
Hunter  shall  nurse  us  both. ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  347 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  "I  will  nurse  him." 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  that  made  Archer 
turn  a  quick  glance  upon  her  face.  It  changed  as 
Dr.  Soper  entered  with  his  perennial  smile,  and  dis- 
tributed an  affluent  greeting : 

' '  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Archer.  I  am  sure  you  must 
be  gratified  to  see  how  well  our  patient  is  get- 
ting on." 

Fairthorne  considered  the  stout  little  doctor  with 
a  look  in  which  there  was  both  pathos  and  comedy. 

' '  Soper, ' '  he  said,  ' '  when  you  are  ill  let  them  come 
to  me  for  a  diagnosis.  I  will  tell  you  now  in  confi- 
dence what  is  the  matter  with  me.  I  am  losing  my 
wits. ' ' 

"No,  sir,"  returned  Soper,  "no,  sir;  he  will  have 
his  little  joke,  Archer.  People  who  are  losing  their 
wits  never  know  it.  Hope  I  may  find  them  when 
you  lose  them." 

Archer,  shocked  and  sorry,  rose. 

"Kindly  wait  a  moment,"  said  Lucretia.  A  mali- 
cious opportunity  was  here.  Bending  over  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne, she  said : 

"Dr.  Archer  and  Dr.  Soper  could  act  as  wit- 
nesses." She  coolly  took  his  will  from  a  drawer, 
opened  it  before  him  on  the  table,  and  went  on: 
"Now,  sir,  please." 

He  looked  up  with  a  face  suddenly  emptied  of  in- 
telligence. Archer,  surprised  at  his  expression  of 
dumb,  questioning  puzzle,  waited.  This  abruptness 
of  change  from  power  to  reason  into  bewilderment 
was  recent.  Fairthorne  said: 

"What  is  it  I  am  to  do?     What  is  it  about?" 


348  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Lucretia  said : 
"Your  will,  sir." 
"I  am  not  making  a  will." 
"Yes,  the  codicil,  you  remember." 
He  seemed  to  comprehend,  and  said : 
"Whereabouts?"  when  Archer  spoke: 
"Not  yet,  Mr.  Fairthorne.     I  do  not  mean  to  be 
a  witness,  to  be  used  as  a  witness.     Good  morning." 
Fairthorne  said: 

' '  Why  not  ?     What  's  the  matter,  Sydney  ? ' '     The 
cloud  was  passing.     "Sorry  you  must  go.     Come  in 
again.     We  will  have  a  consultation  on  Soper. ' '    He 
did  not  insist  upon  Archer's  being  a  witness.     As 
the  physician  passed  by  Mrs.  Hunter,  he  said : 
"Did  you  think  I  would  do  this  thing?" 
"I?"    She  laughed.    "No,  indeed;  but  who  could 
resist  it?"     He  had  a  slight  suspicion  that  he  was 
being  laughed  at,  and  replied : 

"Some  jests  are  costly.     Good  day." 
She  knew  very  well  that  she  had  made  a  mistake, 
but  the  temptation  to  trap  or  at  least  to  annoy 
Archer  had  been  too  sudden  and  too  great. 

"I  was  a  fool,"  she  murmured.  She  went  down- 
stairs behind  him,  neither  speaking.  When  he  had 
gone  she  found  her  brother  waiting,  by  appointment, 
in  the  parlor.  In  a  few  minutes  the  codicil  was 
signed,  witnessed,  and  returned  to  the  safe.  Mrs. 
Hunter  was  at  ease,  and  now,  before  Pilgrim  came 
to  pay  that  visit  to  Edgewood,  she  resolved  with  her 
usual  courage  to  seek  the  unavoidable  peril  rather 
than  to  abide  its  coming. 

The  day  after  this,  as  has  been  stated,  they  moved 


CIRCUMSTANCE  349 

to  the  country,  where  Mary  soon  joined  them.    Here, 
three  days  later,  she  wrote  in  her  diary : 

"This  habit  of  confessing  to  paper  is  sometimes  inconve- 
nient. Once  the  habit  is  made  it  seems  to  exact  more  than  one 
could  have  anticipated.  To  fear  to  face  one's  honest  thought 
on  paper  seems  silly,  but  it  appears  very  definite  when  it  looks 
up  at  you  and  says,  '  This  is  you.'  I  wonder  if  the  habit  be  a 
wise  one! 

"Mrs.  H.  has  become  to  me  an  interesting  and  is  always  a 
disagreeable  problem.  S.  A.  has  written  me  of  her  having  in- 
duced Uncle  John  to  leave  her  money— thirty  thousand  dollars. 
I  do  not  tell  Madge.  Money  means  more  to  her  than  to 
me,  and— yes,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  cannot  talk  about  what  S.  A. 
has  told  no  one  but  me.  Are  all  women  like  me  ?  We  come 
very  near  on  paper.  And  now,  of  late,  when  he  deliberately 
makes  time  to  see  or  ride  with  me  we  seem  to  move  apart.  I 
recoil  mentally,  and— yes,  physically.  I  am  sure  to  say  no  and 
to  be  sorry,  and  to  say  no  again.  L.  P.  comes  within  a  week. 
I  do  not  think  that  now  he  would  interest  me  as  he  did  when 
I  was  younger.  It  was  well  for  us  both  that  he  told  me. 
Imagine  a  man  base  enough  to  hide  it,  and  then  to  marry— and 
for  the  woman  to  wake  up  to  that  knowledge !  I  hope  L.  P.  has 
lived  out  of  remembrance  of  it  all.  It  was  dreadful." 

As  she  ended  Kitty  came  in  to  show  a  new  frock, 
and  then  together  they  went  out  to  look  over  the 
flower-garden  on  the  slope  leading  down  to  Cobb's 
Creek. 

Seeing  them  in  the  garden,  Lucretia  set  out  on 
what  she  called  a  tour  of  inspection.  Miss  Morrow 
she  knew  and  governed,  but  nevertheless  she  now 
looked  with  care  over  Kitty's  disorderly  writing- 
table  and  read  a  few  valueless  notes.  Thence  she 
moved  into  Mary  Fairthorne's  small  sitting-room. 


360  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Her  eyes  lighted  up  as  she  saw  for  the  first  time 
lying  unlocked  and  wide  open  Mary's  diary.  On 
the  page  was  a  small  paper-knife,  apparently  as  a 
marker.  Lucretia  walked  to  the  back  window,  and 
thus  enabled  to  make  sure  of  overlooking  the  two 
women,  gave  herself  up  to  keen  enjoyment  as  she 
ran  over  this  record. 

"It  is  as  good  as  a  novel.  And  so  L.  P.  was 
an  old  love  affair,  and  the  man  was  fool  enough 
to  tell.  I  wonder  did  she  care?  I  do  not  make 
it  out  clearly.  Is  she  really  in  love  with  S.  A.  ? 
It  is  droll  reading.  Am  I  what  men  call  cold?  I 
am  not  in  the  business  at  all.  I  have  no  machinery 
for  grinding  out  any  understanding  of  the  passion 
of  love.  Oh,  this  is  immense !  I  could  advise  the 
said  S.  A.  what  to  do.  I  might  sell  him  this  page. 
That  would  be  an  autographic  treasure!  This  de- 
scription of  me  is  not  bad.  'A  gipsy  face,  ivory 
complexion,  eyes  too  large,  vulgar  habit  of  staring.' 
Thank  you.  '  Good  figure  and  well  dressed. '  Thank 
you  again,  Miss  Fairthorne.  'Has  unpleasant  hands, 
the  thumbs  are  too  long  and  they  are  always  cold 
and  damp.  The  brother  is  like  a  red,  vulgar  bar- 
maid ;  not  a  man,  an  incredible  little  wretch. '  ' 

Mrs.  Hunter  stood  still. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "if  I  do  not  make  you  smart  for 
that,  my  lady,  my  name  is  not  Lucretia.  But  it  is 
not!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing;  "and  still,  she  shall 
catch  it.  I  '11  give  it  to  her  hot."  Mrs.  Hunter 
was  angry,  and  well-mannered  wrath  requires 
breeding. 

The  book  was  replaced,  and  soon  after  was  locked 


CIRCUMSTANCE  351 

up  in  haste  by  its  owner,  who  was  well  aware  of 
Lucretia's  taste  for  domestic  inspections. 

When  next  day,  on  her  return  from  the  city,  the 
servant  failed  to  meet  Miss  Fairthorne  at  the  station 
she  good-humoredly  walked  the  two  miles  to  her 
home  in  the  rain.  At  the  stable,  where  she  went  at 
once,  the  groom  explained  that  Mrs.  Hunter  had 
taken  the  horses  for  some  country  errand.  When 
Mary  said,  "But  I  left  an  order  to  come  for  me,"  the 
man  replied  that  Mr.  Fairthorne  had  personally 
given  directions  for  Mrs.  Hunter  to  have  the  car- 
riage, and  that  Miss  Katherine  had  the  dog-cart. 
When  Mary  inquired  of  Mrs.  Hunter  concerning 
this  matter,  Lucretia  said  that  it  was  impossible  to 
contradict  Mr.  Fairthorne,  that  he  had  insisted  on 
her  doing  certain  errands  and  that  she  regretted  it 
deeply.  There  was  enough  of  truth  in  all  this  to 
make  her  excuse  seem  plausible,  but  Mrs.  Hunter's 
regrets  were  of  purpose  overdone,  and  Mary  haught- 
ily retired  from  an  unequal  contest,  sure  that  the 
slight  had  been  arranged  with  malice  which  she  had 
nothing  in  her  own  nature  to  explain.  She  went 
away  vexed  and  puzzled,  saying  to  herself: 

"How  will  this  sort  of  thing  appear  to  a  stranger, 
and  how  long  will  it  last  ?  Oh,  if  I  only  could ;  that 
would  end  it.  But  I  cannot." 

Two  days  later,  Mrs.  Hunter  said  to  Mary : 

"I  have  to  go  to  the  city  this  morning.  Your 
uncle  will  need  you." 

Mary,  flushing  a  little  at  what  was  close  to  an 
order,  merely  said : 

' '  Very  well,  I  will  sit  with  him. ' ' 


352  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Mrs.  Hunter  dressed  herself  with  unusual  care, 
but  with  great  simplicity,  and  went  away  with  Kitty. 
At  the  city  station,  it  being  then  about  ten  in  the 
morning,  she  parted  from  Kitty,  making  an  appoint- 
ment to  meet  her  in  the  afternoon,  that  they  might 
return  together. 

Luke  Pilgrim,  comfortably  convalescent,  lay  that 
morning  on  a  lounge  in  his  sitting-room.  The  jour- 
nals of  the  day  were  on  a  chair  beside  him.  The 
"Ledger"  of  the  morning  had  just  told  him  of  the 
rise  in  interest,  of  the  scarcity  of  money,  of  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  president  of  the  Republic  Trust 
Company,  and  of  the  general  sense  of  alarm.  A  little 
lower  he  saw  an  assurance  that  Mr.  Thurston  was  to 
be  at  home  the  next  day.  It  did  not  interest  him. 
He  had  the  long-trained  endurance  of  the  newspaper 
which  is  a  part  of  our  education,  and  the  usual 
belief  that  its  to-morrow  will  contradict  to-day. 
Archer  had  allowed  him  one  cigar  daily.  He  sat  up, 
very  pale  in  his  dark  velveteen  jacket,  a  large  fea- 
tured man  from  whose  square  forehead  the  hair  was 
beginning  to  retreat ;  a  very  interesting  face,  with  a 
certain  steadiness  of  feature,  the  look  of  the  habitu- 
ally thoughtful.  He  decided  for  the  after-breakfast 
cigar,  for  he  had  risen  late  and  had  for  the  first  time 
since  his  wound  enjoyed  the  meal.  As  he  stood  up 
there  was  a  timid  knock  at  the  door.  He  cried : 
"Come  in,  come  in."  To  his  surprise,  a  closely 
veiled,  rather  tall  woman  entered.  She  shut  the 
door,  and,  putting  a  hand  behind  her,  quietly 
turned  the  key— a  mistake,  as  at  a  later  date  she  re- 
flected. Pilgrim  moved  forward,  and  said:  "Par- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  353 

don  me,  but  have  you  not  mistaken  the  room? "  Lu- 
cretia  threw  her  veil  aside,  and  ran  forward,  crying : 

' '  Luke,  Luke,  it  is  I !     It  is  Inez ! "  \X 

The  man  fell  back.  She  dropped  on  her  knees, 
and  seized  his  hand. 

"Oh,  these  bitter  years!  Will  you  not  forgive 
me?  I  was  so  young,  so  foolish!  And,  Luke,  I 
have  suffered !  Oh,  won't  you  believe  me  ? ' ' 

As  he  drew  away,  releasing  his  hand,  she  looked 
up,  moving  a  step  or  two  on  her  knees. 

"Pity  me,  Luke!     I  am  so  unhappy!" 

Seeing  no  visible  sign  of  emotion  on  the  face  of 
stern  judgment  which  looked  down  upon  her,  Lu- 
cretia  staggered  to  her  feet  and  cried:  "Oh,  my 
God!  He  will  not,"  and  fell  into  a  chair.  "My 
God!  I  am  punished." 

Pilgrim  stood  still,  speechless.  He  had  never  ex- 
pected to  see  his  wife  again.  Six  years  had  passed 
since  their  divorce,  eight  since  she  had  left  him. 
He  knew  something  of  her  life  up  to  an  uncertain 
time;  then  he  knew  too  much,  and  wished  to  know 
no  more.  She  had  wrecked  his  young  life,  and 
brought  disaster  on  him  after  they  had  been  long 
years  apart.  There  had  been  a  time  when  to  have 
killed  her  would  have  seemed  right.  All  this  and 
more  went  swiftly  through  his  mind  as  he  stood 
without  a  word,  while  the  fire  of  a  long-buried  hate 
flashed  up  through  the  gray  ashes  of  forgetfulness. 
She  was  sobbing,  as  she  sat  in  the  arm-chair,  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Her  parasol  and  gloves  dropped 
to  the  floor.  It  seemed  to  him  hours  as  she  sat, 
brokenly  muttering : 

23 


354  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Luke,  Luke!     I  am  so  unhappy!" 

At  last  she  sat  up  and  lifted  face  and  hands  in 
dumb  appeal,  to  which  her  large  eyes  lent  all  but 
tenderness.  The  man's  strange  silence  troubled 
her.  Suddenly  she  had  a  revealing  inspiration, 
such  as  comes  to  the  greater  actresses  of  real  life. 
She  ran  forward  and  caught  his  arms  as  she  cried : 

"Do  you  want  the  truth?  You  shall  have  it. 
What  rack  is  so  cruel  as  silence  ?  I  never  loved  you. 
I  was  poor,  in  want.  They  said  you  would  be  rich. 
I  married  you— yes,  you  did  not  marry  me,  and  then 
I  got  tired  of  everything.  Your  uncle  came  and 
ended  the  dream  of  wealth.  I  went  away — "  she 
paused.  He  spoke  his  first  word : 

"Well,  Inez?" 

She  let  go  her  hold,  and  as  she  stood  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  moaned  with  low-toned  dis- 
tinctness : 

"It  is  horrible,  but  I  must  say  it.  I  love  you 
now,  Luke.  It  came  to  me  amid  shame  and  an- 
guish. It  has  cursed  me  with  the  thought  of  what 
might  have  been.  That  has  been  my  punishment, 
that  I  have  learned  to  love  you. ' ' 

For  one  brief  moment  the  devil  of  self-esteem 
which  is  in  all  men  rose  up  and  preached  belief. 
Then  he  knew  that  she  was  acting,  and  asked  himself 
first,  and  then  her,  in  a  voice  which  was  absolutely 
calm: 

"What  is  it  that  you  want?" 

"Want?  Want?  How  hard  you  are!  I  want 
what  in  my  folly  I  threw  away.  I  want  what  you 
will  never  give." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  365 

It  was  beginning  to  overtax  the  man,  but  he  an- 
swered slowly: 

"I  do  not  think  I  can  bear  much  more  of  this. 
You  are  not  a  woman  to  come  here  without  some  ob- 
ject. I  have  helped  you  in  the  past.  If  in  any 
reasonable  way  I  can  help  you  now,  for  Heaven's 
sake  say  plainly  what  it  is,  and  let  me  have  done 
with  it.  You  are  as  you  were ;  no  one  can  sift  your 
lies  from  your  truth.  It  would  not  concern  me  if  I 
could.  What  is  it  you  want  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  want  something  which  you  can  give  me." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  want  your  silence.  I  am  Mr.  Fairthorne's 
secretary." 

"You — you  his  secretary?  I  confess  I  was  not 
prepared  for  that. ' '  He  was  indeed  amazed.  ' '  You 
the  woman — who—  Well,  no  matter.  Tell  me  what 
you  desire  and  let  us  get  done  with  it."  She  noted 
the  way  in  which  his  voice  and  manner  lost  what 
little  indulgent  yielding  had  been  in  them.  She 
said: 

"Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy,  Luke.  Don't  say  you 
will  not  help  me.  You  think  I  have  lived  an  easy 
life  on  your  money.  Indeed,  indeed  it  is  not  so. 
It  was  not  spent  on  me.  It  went  to  help,  to  educate 
my  brother.  I  have  worked  hard.  At  last  I  have 
found  a  home  and  peace,  peace!  I  can  even  save 
for  a  rainy  day.  And  now — you  come  and —  How 
can  I  bear  it?" 

He  said,  quietly : 

"Sit  down,"  and  as  she  obeyed  he  himself  took 
a  seat.  "Mrs.  Hunter,  or— well,  Inez,  if  you  like, 


356  CIRCUMSTANCE 

I  know  well  that  you  did  not  love  me,  also  I  know 
that  you  do  not  now  love  me.  It  is  pure  fiction. 
What  you  fear  is  that  I  shall  tell  the  ugly  story  of 
your  life.  You  are  a  woman  whom  I  utterly  distrust. 
You  have  left  behind  you  a  trail  of  ruin.  You  are 
now  in  the  house  of  my  friend  in  a  place  of  impor- 
tance. What  little  I  have  heard,  and  I  have  been  too 
ill  to  hear  much,  has  not  been  pleasant.  I  do  not 
know  what  to  do.  I  do  not  like  to  be  in  the  house 
with  you,  and  yet  I  do  not  mean  that  you  shall  shut 
me  out  of  that  house.  If  Mr.  Fairthorne  is  well 
enough  I  have  to  make  arrangements  with  him  which 
will  require  hours,  even  days,  of  consultation.  I  do 
not  mean  to  be  shut  out  of  this  because  it  is  unpleas- 
ant for  you  or  awkward  for  me.  What  else  I  may 
or  may  not  do  I  decline  to  state.  All  of  this  is  too 
unexpected  for  decision ;  I  must  give  myself  time  to 
reflect." 

"And  is  that  all!" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  do  not  believe  me,  Luke?  Do  you 
think  I  invented  my  love?  Ah,  if  only  I  were  free 
from  that  bondage.  Do  not  say  that  you  do  not 
believe  I  love  you." 

"I  do  not." 

"I  am  at  your  mercy.  Be  generous!  You  sim- 
ply cannot  say,  'This  woman  was  my  wife,  take 
care  of  her;  she  is  bad,  dangerous.'  And  it  was 
years  ago.  Do  you  not  think  a  woman  may 
change?" 

"You  have  not  changed.  I  make  no  terms.  We 
will  meet  as  strangers.  You  will  be  my  old  friend's 


CIRCUMSTANCE  357 

secretary,  and  beyond  this  I  do  not  pledge  myself. 
Pardon  me,  you  have  forgotten  your  parasol. ' '  She 
had  risen.  He  picked  up  her  gloves  and  handed 
them  to  her. 

"And  this  must  content  me?" 

He  made  no  reply,  but,  preceding  her  to  the  door, 
perceived  as  he  tried  the  handle  that  it  was  locked. 
He  turned  the  key. 

"You  were  deliberate,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"Good-bye,  Luke,"  she  said,  with  her  head  bent, 
a  slight  break,  a  certain  humility  in  her  lowered 
voice.  Then,  for  the  first  time  he  was  angry.  He 
said: 

"That  is  not  my  name  for  you.  We  are  further 
apart  than  are  other  people.  The  law  has  built  a 
wall  between  us.  I  am  Mr.  Pilgrim,  and  you,  I 
suppose,  are  Mrs.  Hunter,  or  God  knows  what 
name. ' ' 

"I  will  remember,"  she  said,  faintly.  "Luke — 
pardon  me,  Mr.—  Oh,  how  can  I?  I  will  try  to 
remember."  As  she  spoke  she  stood  as  if  for  sup- 
port leaning  against  the  door  he  had  unlocked.  His 
hand  was  on  the  knob ;  he  was  faint  in  body  and  tor- 
tured in  mind,  but  resolute  to  end  it. 

She  repeated  her  last  word — "remember,  remem- 
ber"— and  reeled  against  him.  This  physical  appeal, 
as  of  one  about  to  fall,  only  angered  him,  but  as  by 
instinct  he  caught  her  on  his  arm.  She  looked  up 
at  him. 

""Oh,  kiss  me,  Luke — once,  only  once — for  good- 
bye." 

The  man  started  as  if  stung.      He  pushed  her 


368  CIRCUMSTANCE 

from  him.  "You  devil!"  he  cried.  "Do  you  want 
me  to  kill  you?  By  Heaven,  for  this  second  time 
you  have  been  near  to  die—" 

/  She  fell  back,  and  knew,  as  he  threw  open  the 
door,  that  he  had  spoken  truth.  He  was  no  longer  a 
man  to  be  played  upon  or  tempted. 

"Will  you  go?"  he  said. 

Again  she  looked  and  saw  that  in  his  face  which 
she  never  quite  forgot.  She  turned  in  haste  and, 
passing  him,  walked  down  the  corridor  with  bent 
head.  Once  she  staggered,  as  if  weak.  He  watched 
her  and  closed  the  door  as  she  turned  a  corner  and 
was  lost  to  view. 

Once  out  of  his  sight,  Lucretia  drew  herself  up. 

y"I  think  that  will  do,"  she  said;  "he  will  not 
tell.  I  know  him.  It  would  seem  mean,  a  revenge. 
I  am  sure  he  will  not  speak." 

Pilgrim  was  not  yet  strong  enough  for  so  severe 
a  test  of  strength  as  this  had  been.  He  threw  him- 
self down  exhausted,  and,  wiping  the  sweat  from 
his  forehead,  said  to  himself: 

"That  was  terrible.  What  are  ghosts  to  that? 
Oh,  God  help  me,  I  was  near  to  murder.  Oh,  that 
white  neck !  I  wanted  to  hurt  it,  to  silence  the  cursed 
tongue.  If — if  ever  a  man  had  done  me  as  great  a 
wrong,  surely  he  had  died  for  it. ' ' 

For  a  long  while  he  lay  outwardly  at  rest,  while 
the  storm  within  subsided.  Then  he  began  to  con- 
sider the  practical  features  of  the  situation.  He 
knew  that  he  must  not  betray  Mrs.  Hunter's  identity 
if  it  were  possible  to  avoid  it.  He  could  not  now 
refuse  to  make  his  visit,  but  certainly  he  must  wait 
until  he  felt  better. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  359 

"And  by  George!"  he  added,  aloud,  "I  will  make 
it  short." 

Archer,  who  more  than  suspected  Pilgrim  of  hav- 
ing been  in  the  past  strongly  attracted  by  Miss  Fair- 
thorne,  had  been,  for  a  double  reason,  indisposed  to 
talk  of  that  lady  to  his  friend.  Thus  it  came  about 
that  at  the  time  of  this  painful  interview  Pilgrim 
knew  little  of  Mrs.  Hunter's  true  relation  to  either 
John  Fairthorne  or  his  nieces.  Tom  Masters  had 
spoken  of  the  handsome  secretary  whom  he  had 
found  agreeable,  and  Margaret  Swanwick,  during 
Pilgrim's  brief  former  stay,  had  spoken  and  written 
far  otherwise,  but  as  he  did  not  then  dream  of  who 
Mrs.  Hunter  really  was  he  had  taken  little  interest 
in  what  he  had  thus  learned. 

He  thought,  as  he  lay  still,  of  the  fatal  influence 
this  woman  had  exerted  upon  a  life  which  was  assur- 
edly both  brilliant  and  successful,  and  as  certainly 
most  unhappy.  Then,  being  the  firm  master  of  his 
own  mental  and  moral  processes,  he  resolutely  put  it 
aside,  saying  to  himself : 

"I  made  no  promises.  What  wonder  that  as  a 
young  fellow  I  was  the  fool  of  this  woman?  What 
an  actress ! ' '  After  this  he  took  up  a  report  on  the 
lighting  of  mines,  and  forgot  for  a  time  the  scene 
which  had  so  gravely  tested  his  returning  strength. 


XXXVII 

IIME  had  run  on  and  while  Third  Street 
and  Wall  Street  were  disturbed  and 
anxious,  the  house  of  Roger  Grace  & 
Company  had  also  its  especial  trouble. 
The  doubtful  condition  of  more  than 
one  institution  was  discussed,  and  the  long  absence 
of  Grace  became  the  subject  of  comment  when  it 
grew  clear  that  radical  measures  must  be  taken  to 
sustain  this  or  that  crippled  bank  or  trust  com- 
pany. Usually,  after  seven  or  eight  days  of  absence 
Grace  had  found  his  letters  upon  his  arrival  at  Bed- 
ford, but  now  over  twelve  days  had  gone  by,  and 
where  he  was  no  one  knew.  Swanwick  began  to  be 
uneasy  about  his  friend,  and  said  to  his  wife  one 
morning  after  breakfast: 

"This  absence  just  now  is  very  serious.  No  one 
has  the  courage  and  the  clear  head  of  Grace.  I 
learn  from  his  partners  that  thrice  before,  but  not 
last  year,  he  has  declared  he  was  gouty  and  gone 
away  abruptly,  telling  his  clerks  not  to  bother  him 
with  letters,  to  send  them  all  to  Bedford ;  he  would 
be  there  in  a  week  or  more.  This  year  he  went  away 
in  haste,  and  to-day  I  have  a  letter  from  Blount 
from  the  hotel  at  Bedford  Springs.  Here  it  is." 
"Read  it,"  she  said. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  361 

"  DEAR  SIR— There  are  a  dozen  telegrams  here  and  no  end 
of  letters  for  Mr.  Grace.  His  partners  wired  the  hotel  keeper 
about  him.  He  told  me  to  reply  that  he  has  not  arrived  and 
that  we  have  not  heard  from  him.  He  is  well  known  here.  His 
partners  seem  uneasy.  Is  it  the  state  of  the  stock  market,  or 
is  there  possibly  any  cause  to  be  personally  anxious  about 
him?  You  know,  sir,  or  perhaps  do  not  know,  what  I  owe 
him.  Before  he  went  away  he  had  become  unusually  grave, 
and  seemed  to  me  to  want  to  avoid  every  one  and  to  be  alone. 
Perhaps  Mrs.  Swanwick  would  write  and  let  me  know  if  he  is 
heard  from— or,  can  I  do  anything? 

"Yours  truly, 

"MARTIN  BLOTJNT." 

"That  is  a  good-hearted  fellow,"  said  Harry; 
"and  I,  too,  am  anxious.  I  do  not  see  what  else  can 
be  done.  His  partners  seem  to  me  to  think  this  ab- 
sence mysterious.  Certainly  it  is  just  now  rather 
unfortunate. ' ' 

"Do  you  often  see  his  partners?"  asked  Madge. 

"Yes,  daily.  They  are  really  worried.  It  is  like 
a  general  officer  missing  in  a  big  engagement.  Of 
course,  they  must  be  presumed  to  know  why  Mr. 
Grace  is  absent." 

"They  can  make  it  seem  too  mysterious,  Harry, 
and  that  is  just  what  it  is;  but  they  are  unwise  to 
show  their  anxiety." 

"Yes,  I  think  they  show  it  too  much." 

"They  should  not,"  said  Madge;  "they  should 
seem  confidently  to  accept  it  as  usual. ' ' 

"I  will  say  a  word  or  two  of  warning  as  I  go 
down  street."  He  did  not  even  suspect  that  he  was 
being  advised  to  do  this  very  thing.  His  mind  was 
a  capable  instrument,  but  slow;  that  of  his  wife 


362  CIRCUMSTANCE 

rapid  and  very  decisive.  She  said,  as  he  was  leav- 
ing her : 

"Wait  a  moment;  do  not  forget  to  see  Mr.  Pil- 
grim to-day.  I  sent  him  some  trifles  this  morning. 
See  if  he  is  well  fed,  our  hotels  are  so  bad. ' ' 

"Anything  else?"  he  asked,  smiling.  Margaret 
said:  "Yes.  Has  any  one  asked  about  Mr.  Grace  at 
Miss  Markham's?  I  shrewdly  suspect  the  little 
white  violet  may  know." 

"White  violet!"  he  queried. 

"Yes,  dear.  Perhaps  you  may  recall  that  a  cen- 
tury ago,  when  we  were  lovers,  we  found  white  vio- 
lets on  the  upper  Wissahickon  Creek." 

"Thank  you,  madam.  I  remember,  and  am  still 
your  lover.  Is  it  Clementina  that  is  the  white  vio- 
let? And  who  was  so  sentimental  as  to  call  her 
that?" 

"Roger  Grace." 

' '  Indeed !     That  is  funny. ' ' 

"I  do  not  think  so." 

"Then  where  is  your  sense  of  fun,  Madge?  Is  it 
a  mildly  conducted  flirtation?  Imagine  it!  Grace 
as  the  passionate  lover,  and  Clementina  primly  re- 
sponsive !  She  is  still  pretty,  but  imagine  it ! "  He 
laughed  merrily. 

"My  dear  Harry,  when  we  were  young  lovers  some 
one  was  laughing  at  us.  There  is  an  element  of  the 
ridiculous  in  all  love  affairs  for  those  who  are  still 
outside  of  the  net.  What  if  I  were  to  say  to  you 
that  the  white  violet  in  her  pale  silks  is  a  self-sub- 
dued, passionate  little  woman?" 


CIRCUMSTANCE  363 

"I  should  say  that  that  was  one  of  Mary's  charac- 
terizations and  utterly  nonsensical." 

"It  is  hers.  I  should  never  have  put  it  just  that 
way,  but  Mary  has  curious  insight." 

* '  I  did  not  answer  you,  Madge.  Mr.  West,  Grace 's 
partner,  did  go  to  Miss  Markham's  to  ask  if  Grace 
had  left  any  direction  with  them.  They  said  no.  Is 
that  all?  I  must  go." 

Madge  was  silent  a  moment.  ' '  Has  any  one  asked 
Mr.  Knell  wood,  Harry?" 

"Why,  how  on  earth  should  Knell  wood  know?" 
He  was  getting  impatient. 

"Perhaps  not.  Oh,  by  the  way,  wire  Mary  to 
come  in  to  dinner  on  Sunday." 

"She  won't.  She  plays  the  organ  at  St.  David's. 
Mary's  duties  are  always  in  the  way  of  her 
pleasures. ' ' 

"Try  for  Saturday." 

"Very  good.  Anything  else ?  No,"  and  he  went 
away  to  say  good  day  to  the  children  and  thence  to 
his  office. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Swanwick  sat  down 
and  wrote,  asking  Mr.  Knellwood  to  drop  in  at  five. 
Knellwood  was  glad  to  receive  her  note.  He,  too, 
was  deeply  distressed.  Perhaps  because  he  was  not 
a  man  of  quick  mind  or  large  intellect  the  vital 
alertness  of  Margaret  Swan  wick's  nature  and  her 
intellectual  sympathy,  even  where  her  beliefs  failed, 
pleased  the  man  who,  whatever  else  he  lacked,  was 
humbly  appreciative.  More  positive  than  her  sister, 
she  had  less  charity  for  opinions  which  both  women 


364  CIRCUMSTANCE 

felt  to  be  extreme  and  hurtful  to  their  church.  But, 
being  a  kindly  woman,  she  never  yielded  to  her  con- 
stant temptation  to  have  a  bout  at  logical  fence  with 
the  rector.  The  man  she  liked  with  a  reserve  of 
varying  doubt ;  the  priest  was  unexplained  to  her  by 
any  reasoning  of  which  she  was  mistress. 

When  her  note  came  the  clergyman  was  distract- 
edly turning  over  the  pages  of  the  "Guardian." 
Roger  Grace,  his  temptation,  and  his  long  absence, 
were  troubling  deeply  the  tender  heart  of  the  rector. 
Archer  had  forbidden  work,  and  had  laid  remorseless 
orders  upon  him  as  to  diet  and  times  of  rest.  In  this 
enforced  leisure  the  image  of  Kitty  rose  insistent, 
"as  in  a  dream  adorned,"  because  these  things  no 
man  can  altogether  set  aside;  but  his  beliefs  were 
honest,  and  while  Kitty  was  absent  the  more  terrible 
power  of  the  mere  woman  was  in  abeyance.  Like 
Roger  Grace,  he  feared  and  distrusted  himself,  and 
prayed  with  a  humble  heart  to  be  delivered  from 
temptation.  It  may  seem  strange,  but  a  nobler 
woman  would  have  tempted  him  less.  He  was  glad 
now  of  Kitty's  absence  in  the  country,  and  thought 
with  joy  of  the  summer  city,  empty  of  his  richer 
friends,  and  of  a  return  to  his  poor  and  his  clerical 
work.  Meanwhile,  he  was  a  little  bored. 

Mrs.  Swanwick  was  alone  when  he  was  shown  up 
to  the  library.  She  meant  to  admit  no  one  else  save 
this  invited  guest,  and  was  visibly  pleased  to  see 
him.  He  said,  as  he  picked  out  with  care  a  sturdy 
chair  for  his  big  frame: 

"I  am  so  glad  you  thought  to  ask  me.  I  am 
hedged  about  by  Sydney  Archer  with  things  I  must 


CIRCUMSTANCE  365 

or  must  not  do.  Society  is  not  forbidden,  and,  you 
know,  you  have  what  Miss  Fairthorne  calls  'the  gift 
of  welcome.'  ' 

' '  That  is  very  nice.  I  like  that.  Sit  down.  Jack 
wished  to  be  told  when  you  came,  but  he  is  out.  Is 
there  any  news  of  Mr.  Grace  ?  Keally,  he  is  a  bit  in- 
considerate to  be  away  when  everybody  wants  him. ' ' 

Knellwood  said : 

"No,  I  have  not  heard,  but  I  could  not  expect  to 
hear.  He  likes  to  run  off  and  get  clear  of  work. 
Cannot  you  understand  that?"  He  was  needlessly 
explanatory. 

"Yes,  but  not  now."  She  knew  as  well  as  any 
one  the  treacherous  state  of  the  money  market  and 
the  probability  of  the  collapse  of  the  weaker  banks. 
She  chose  to  quote  her  husband  as  her  authority,  and 
went  on  to  state  what  Harry  thought  of  the  peril, 
how  sorely  Grace  was  wanted,  what  doubt  and  sus- 
picion his  absence  created,  the  fact  that  he  had 
meant  to  assist  in  sustaining  certain  institutions,  and 
finally  how  unlike  him  it  was  to  abandon  his  post  at 
such  a  time. 

The  statement  was  made  so  clearly  that  it  left 
Knellwood  more  and  more  uncomfortable  about  his 
friend.  He  felt  that  this  acute  little  woman  knew 
or  suspected  that  there  was  something  not  quite  right 
or  usual  in  this  unexplained  neglect  of  duty.  He 
began  to  feel  it  as  an  appeal  to  himself,  and  to  fancy 
it  rested  on  her  belief  that  he  knew  something  which 
she  did  not. 

"It  is  a  sad  pity,"  he  said;  "but  I  suppose  he 
will  turn  up  soon  or  late." 


366  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Yes— or  late.  That  is  the  trouble.  If  any  one 
knew  where  to  find  him  it  would  be  a  great  relief." 

"I  do  not  know.  May  I  have  a  glass  of  water?" 
She  rang  and,  as  she  sat  down,  said: 

"Mr.  Knellwood,  we  care  very,  very  much  for 
Roger  Grace,  and  so  do  you.  He  is  a  noble-minded, 
generous  man.  Why  he  hides  just  now  we  do  not 
guess,  but  it  is  very  serious.  You  can  have  no  idea 
how  he  is  wanted. ' ' 

Knellwood  was  disturbed  both  by  her  persistency 
and  also  by  the  fact  that  for  others  and  for  his  own 
sake  Grace  should  be  at  home. 

"Mrs.  Swan  wick,  I  cannot  help  you.  All  I  can 
say  is  that  young  Blount  writes  me  that  he  must 
expect  soon  to  be  at  Bedford,  because  a  huge  mail 
awaits  him  there.  He  mentioned  also  that  year  be- 
fore last,  as  the  landlord  says,  Mr.  Grace  came  from 
Carlisle  to  Bedford." 

She  had  heard  enough,  and  turned  the  talk  aside 
on  matters  of  less  personal  import.  As  soon  as  Mr. 
Knellwood  had  gone  she  sent  a  note  to  what  Phila- 
delphians  call  the  "Old  Club."  Her  husband  usu- 
ally stopped  there  for  an  hour  on  his  homeward 
way.  He  read  it,  said,  "I  must  go,  Masters,"  laid 
down  his  cue,  and  hastened  home.  Madge  said  at 
once: 

"Harry,  can  you  go  to  Carlisle?  I  think  Mr. 
Grace  may  be  there.  But  there  is  something  very 
wrong  and  we  must  be  careful.  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Knellwood  knows, ' '  and  she  related  what  had  passed 
and  what  Blount  had  said. 

Harry  replied  that  he  could  not  go,  at  least  not 


CIRCUMSTANCE  367 

for  two  days.  "It  seems  to  me,  Madge,  that  you — 
that  we  are  a  little  absurd.  It  is  none  of  our  busi- 
ness. How  persistent  you  are!  Grace  is  a  well- 
known  man.  He  cannot  be  ill;  if  he  wants  to  stay 
away  no  one  can  prevent  it,  and  he  knew  better  than 
we  why  he  should  not  have  gone  just  at  this  time." 

"It  is  just  that  which  makes  it  grave." 

"But  Carlisle— why,  of  all  places,  Carlisle?" 

"Well,  of  course  my  opinion  is  of  no  value,  but  if 
I  were  West  or  you  I  should  at  least  wire  Mr.  Blount 
to  go  to  Carlisle  and  inquire.  Make  him  see  the 
need  for  care  and  of  course  use  no  names  in  your 
telegram. ' ' 

"My  dear  Madge,  I  dislike  this  way  of  thinking 
for  other  people."  He  did  not  like  to  hint  to  his 
wife  the  suspicion  in  his  male  mind  as  to  there  being 
a  woman  in  the  case.  He  had  no  least  reason  to 
think  so,  except  that  no  other  theory  seemed  tenable. 

His  wife  replied  to  his  general  statement  by 
saying : 

"Yes,  you  are  right;  but  I  am  so  sure  there  can 
be  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  his  absence  that  I  am 
troubled.  Do  wire  Martin  Blount." 

He  reluctantly  yielded.  "I  suppose  it  can  do  no 
harm.  Give  me  a  blank.  Will  this  do? 

"  'MARTIN  BLOUNT, 

"'Hotel  Stanton,  Bedford: 

"  '  Go  to  Carlisle.  Find  owner  of  letters  to  G.  Be  prudent. 
Wire  me,  but  use  no  name.  Very  private. 

"  'H.    SWANWICK.'" 

"That  is  right,  Harry.  I  can't  but  feel  with  you 
that  all  this  is  full  of  risk.  I  can't  explain  it,  but 


368  CIRCUMSTANCE 

one  must  do  something  and  those  partners  seem 
rather  at  the  end  of  their  resources." 

"That  is  true  enough,  Madge." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Knellwood  that  the  letter 
from  Blount  and  his  mention  of  Carlisle  could  be  of 
any  consequence.  Much  as  he  longed  for  his  friend 's 
return  and  great  as  was  his  anxiety,  he  knew  as  no 
one  else  did  the  cause  of  this  absence,  and  had  meant 
jealously  to  guard  that  knowledge. 

When,  however,  Swanwick,  after  his  talk  with 
Madge,  mentioned  Carlisle  and  what  Blount  had  said 
to  West  the  latter  replied  that  it  was  quite  vain  to  do 
anything  further,  and  would  only  annoy  Mr.  Grace. 
Later  in  the  day,  however,  he  had  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  sign  for  Grace  two  important  papers  which 
closed  a  difficult  financial  affair.  He  hesitated  to 
act;  the  amounts  involved  were  large.  Feeling  that 
Grace  ought  first  to  see  the  papers,  he  had  sent 
them  to  Bedford,  assured  that  as  usual  the  banker 
would,  after  a  week,  find  them  at  the  springs.  But 
now  time  had  run  on ;  his  accustomed  stay  had  been 
much  exceeded.  West  hesitated  until  the  safes  were 
locked  and  most  of  the  clerks  gone.  Then  he  looked 
to  see  who  could  best  be  spared,  and  called  to  Craig, 
who  went  back  with  him  into  the  private  office. 

"Mr.  Craig,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  doing  better 
since  Mr.  Grace  last  talked  to  you.  I  want  you  to 
take  this  letter  to  the  landlord  of  the  Bedford 
Springs  Hotel.  If  Mr.  Grace  has  not  arrived  there 
he  will  give  you  two  large  sealed  packages  addressed 
to  him.  Ask  when  he  is  expected.  Return  at  once. 
Keep  an  account  of  your  expenses.  Take  the  first 


CIRCUMSTANCE  369 

train,  and  lose  no  time.  There  is  a  formal  order  to 
the  landlord. " 

Craig,  well  pleased  to  be  thus  used,  promised  due 
despatch,  and  went  away  in  haste  that  afternoon. 
It  was  a  mere  accident  which  caused  him  to  be  thus 
chosen.  He  had  spilled  ink  on  his  clothes,  and,  lin- 
gering late  to  rid  himself  of  the  stains,  chanced  to  be 
the  only  messenger  at  once  available  for  the  pur- 
poses of  an  indecisive  man. 

Delighted  to  get  a  holiday,  he  left  early  in 
the  afternoon,  and  reached  Bedford  Springs  next 
morning. 

Blount  had  had  no  difficulty  in  being  set  free  for  a 
time,  as  he  was  very  faithful  and  the  fuller  season 
had  not  begun  as  yet.  When  he  had  explained  to  the 
landlord  that  he  was  going  to  see  Mr.  Grace  the 
former  asked  him  if  he  was  sure  to  find  him.  Blount, 
who  was  on  his  guard,  said : 

"Why,  of  course."  Why  else  should  he  go ?  The 
landlord,  with  the  indifference  of  the  American, 
suggested  that  he  take  with  him  Mr.  Grace's  letters 
and  telegrams,  and  thus  freighted,  Blount  went 
away,  passing  out  of  the  station  as  Craig's  train 
entered  it. 

Full  of  his  own  importance,  Craig  asked  for  news 
of  Mr.  Grace.  Failing  this,  he  delivered  his  letter  and 
desired  to  receive  the  documents  described  in  it.  He 
heard,  to  his  amazement,  that  these  and  all  the  other 
letters  had  been  carried  off  by  the  landlord 's  request 
in  order  that  they  might  the  sooner  find  Mr.  Grace 
at  Carlisle.  Craig  was  indignant  on  a  large  scale 
for  the  firm  of  Grace  &  Co.  It  did  not  seem  to  trou- 

24 


370  CIRCUMSTANCE 

ble  the  landlord,  but  when  he  said  that  Blount  had 
been  charged  with  this  errand  Craig  began  to  have 
a  vague  notion  that  it  might  be  worth  while,  and 
certainly  excusable  to  follow  him.  But  what  could 
make  a  man  like  Grace  remain  in  a  little  town  like 
Carlisle?  Perhaps  of  all  in  the  banker's  employ 
this  red-cheeked  little  scamp  was  the  only  one  who 
surmised  anything  wrong  in  the  fact  of  Roger 
Grace's  prolonged  absence  at  a  critical  time.  Now 
/  he  concluded,  with  a  chuckle,  that  there  was  very 
likely  a  woman  in  the  business.  This  was  enough  to 
send  Craig  off  by  the  next  train  to  the  pleasant,  old- 
fashioned  town  which  the  Presbyterians  built  in  the 
hills,  and  where  Benjamin  Rush  helped  to  found  a 
college. 

In  the  afternoon  the  two  men  in  turn  inspected 
the  registers  of  the  three  hotels.  Craig  sought  lodg- 
ings at  one  of  these  inns,  and  abandoning  the  search 
found  some  one  to  take  a  hand  at  pool,  and  spent  an 
agreeable  and  profitable  evening.  After  nine  o'clock 
he  lighted  a  cigar  and  strolled  out  to  see  the  town 
and  to  find  Blount,  and  to  secure  from  him  the 
papers  West  had  desired  him  to  bring  back. 

Meanwhile,  the  other  young  man  had  found  for 
himself  a  room  in  one  of  the  more  modest  of  the  inns, 
where  he  talked  a  little  with  the  landlord  and  became 
sure,  as  he  had  done  elsewhere,  that  the  great  banker 
was  unknown  to  all  of  them.  Just  before  bedtime, 
being  of  that  temper  which  is  hard  to  satisfy,  he 
turned  back  over  the  register  some  two  weeks  and 
began  to  inspect  the  names.  He,  too,  had  been  made 
to  feel  by  Swan  wick's  telegram  that  there  was  some- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  371 

thing  to  be  known  about  this  good  and  kindly  man 
which  was  not  merely  that,  in  pure  freak  or  because 
of  gout,  he  had  so  hidden  himself  that  no  one  could 
find  him.  Thus  musing,  he  read  over  the  names, 
and  came  on  that  of  James  Rogers.  No  date  of  de- 
parture was  recorded.  He  stood,  disquieted. 

Grace  did  not  write  what  is  known  as  a  business 
hand.  When  Fairthorne  saw  his  signature  he  said 
of  it  critically,  as  an  expert : 

' '  He  writes  a  large,  round,  patient  script,  and  loses 
no  time  on  flourishes."  Martin  had  seen  on  many 
kind,  personal  checks  that  honest,  clear,  round  hand. 
The  "Rogers"  was  penned  exactly  as  Grace  usually 
wrote  Roger.  Blount  stood  still  in  wonder,  almost 
fearful  to  go  on  into  something  which  his  bene- 
factor clearly  meant  to  hide. 

He  went  out  and  sat  down  with  the  landlord  on 
the  porch,  declared  it  was  a  fine  night,  and,  after 
the  fashion  of  his  host,  set  his  feet  on  the  rail.  He 
talked  agriculture,  crops,  and  cheese-making,  and  at 
length  said,  as  if  it  had  just  turned  up  in  his  mind : 

"I  was  looking  over  your  books.  There  's  one 
man  I  'd  like  to  see,  name  of  Rogers — Jim  Rogers. 
I  see  he  has  n't  gone  yet;  old  friend  of  my  folks." 

"I  think  I  sort  of  remember  him,"  said  the  land- 
lord; "sandy-haired  man;  travels  in  dairy  fixin's. 
He  's  been  gone  a  week.  Ain't  his  goin'  set  down? 
Well,  like  enough." 

Then  Blount  thought  he  would  go  to  bed.  At  the 
door  he  turned,  and  observed  that  his  host  was  look- 
ing after  him.  At  this  moment  he  heard : 

' '  Halloa,    Blount ! ' '    and,    to    his    surprise,    was 


372  CIRCUMSTANCE 

greeted  by  Lionel  Craig.  That  young  man,  desiring 
later  company,  had  sought  Martin  in  the  only  inns 
of  the  town  and  had  thus  naturally  come  upon  him. 

"What  brings  you  here?"  said  Blount,  not  over- 
pleased. 

"Oh,  I  'm  sent  up  by  the  firm  to  find  old  Grace." 

"Hush,  "said  Martin. 

"Guess  you  are  after  him,  too.  Any  luck?  He's 
wanted,  I  tell  you. ' ' 

"Look  here,"  said  Martin,  "don't  talk,  you  're 
a  little  drunk."  Did  this  man  know  anything?  He 
would  learn.  "Come  up  to  my  room.  Lord,  man, 
don't  talk  here." 

"Got  a  cigar,  Blount?" 

"No.     Come  with  me.     I  '11  get  you  one." 

"I  '11  come;  want  to  talk.  I  'm  not  drunk — not 
bad,  anyway." 

They  went  up  a  rickety  stair  to  the  second  story, 
and  passed  along  the  hallway,  which  was  dimly 
lighted  by  a  suspended  lamp. 

"My  room  is  No.  27,"  said  Blount.  They  went 
on,  looking  at  the  numbers.  Suddenly  a  door  opened, 
and  a  man  in  a  dressing-gown  staggered  out,  fell 
against  Lionel,  and  then  lurched  heavily  on  to  a 
settee. 

' '  By  George ! ' '  cried  Craig.  "It's  old  Grace,  and 
he  's  drunk." 

Then  Martin  understood. 

"Hush!"  he  said.     "Help  me  if  you  can." 

"OLord,  what  a  joke!" 

"If  you  say  a  word  more  I  will  kill  you,"  cried 
Blount.  ' '  Stand  aside  if  you  can 't  help  me. ' ' 


CIECUMSTANCE  373 

Craig  kept  silence,  while  Martin  said : 

"Mr.  Grace,  it  is  I,  Blount.  Try  to  get  up." 
Grace  cast  the  unmeaning  look  of  the  deadened  mind 
upon  him,  but,  seeming  to  understand,  stood  up,  and 
was  helped  back  to  his  bed,  where  he  lay  breathing 
heavily  and  fell  asleep. 

Martin's  first  thought  was  of  deepest  grief.  His 
next  was  of  the  need  to  keep  for  Grace  this  wretched 
secret.  Lionel  had  followed  him  into  the  room.  He, 
too,  was  thinking.  A  candle  on  the  bureau  dropped 
grease,  and  dimly  lighted  the  disorder  of  the  cham- 
ber. Martin  spoke : 

"Look  here,  Craig,  you  and  I  alone  know  about 
this.  We  can  keep  it  so  that  no  one  else  will  ever 
know  it.  I  want  you  to  promise." 

"Oh,  I  '11  keep  it,  sure  enough,"  said  Craig, 
lightly.  "There  will  be  you,  and  the  old  man,  and 
me.  We  '11  keep  it,  but  he  won't  boss  me  any  more. 
Oh,  I  'm  safe,  you  bet  on  that. ' ' 

Martin  was  sure  he  was  not,  but  what  more  could 
he  do  ?  As  he  spoke  he  had  been  seated  by  the  bed, 
a  finger  on  Grace's  bounding  pulse.  He  rose,  and, 
facing  Craig,  said: 

"If  you  are  sober  enough  to  understand,  do  you 
listen  to  me.  If  ever  you  tell  of  this,  as  I  live,  I  will 
thrash  you  so  that  you  will  never  get  over  it.  If  you 
tell  it  you  will  ruin  yourself,  and  I  will  spoil  what 
there  is  left  of  you.  You  lied  to  me,  of  course  you 
lied.  You  can't  help  it.  This  time  it  is  awfully 
important. ' ' 

Craig  said  feebly: 

"I  did  n't  lie.     Can't  you  believe  a  man?" 


374  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Well,  perhaps  I  was  hasty,"  returned  Blount; 
"but  you  know  this  has  got  to  be  a  secret.  I  can't 
explain  it  in  a  man  like  Mr.  Grace,  but  I  know  this, 
that  for  it  to  get  about  and  get  known  would  almost 
kill  him.  If  I  was  rough  with  you  it  was  because  of 
the  way  you  took  it,  just  as  if  it  was  an  e very-day 
affair." 

"That  's  all  right,"  said  Craig;  "when  a  gentle- 
man apologizes  that  ends  it,  of  course." 

"Some  day,"  thought  Blount,  "I  will  lick  this 
little  beast. ' '  He  said  earnestly :  ' '  Then  it  is  clearly 
agreed  between  us  that  what  we  have  learned  by  ac- 
cident no  other  man  is  to  know?" 

"Yes,  that  's  all  right;  but  what  shall  we  do 
now?"  That  question  had  from  the  first  been  next 
to  the  need  of  concealment  in  Martin's  mind. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go  to  Philadelphia  at  once. 
You  might  say  that  Mr.  Grace  had  been  taken  sick 
here  and  would  be  at  home  in  twenty-four  hours. 
You  will  get  credit  for  tracing  him." 

"But  they  '11  ask  such  a  lot  of  questions."  Craig 
evidently  distrusted  his  own  power  to  stand  cross- 
questioning.  "Why,  that  man  West,  he  's  like  a 
terrier  with  a  rat ;  he  just  shakes  the  life  out  of  you. 
He  'd  know  right  away."  Had  Lionel  been  quite 
sober  he  would  have  been  confident  of  his  power  to 
hide  facts. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Blount.  He  hated 
the  idea  of  sending  this  unmanly  weakling  to  tell  a 
string  of  lies.  But  what  to  do?  Craig  settled  the 
matter. 

"Suppose  I  go  back,  and  say  I  went  to  Bedford 


CIRCUMSTANCE  375 

and  the  old  man  was  n't  there.  I  won't  get  any 
credit  out  of  the  business." 

Blount  ignored  the  regret. 

' '  That  will  do, ' '  he  said.    "  I  will  stay  here. ' ' 

"Well,  I  '11  go;  but  I  was  to  bring  two  packages 
back  with  me  if  Mr.  Grace  was  not  at  Bedford. 
They  are  large  and  sealed,  not  like  letters." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Blount.  ' '  Here  they  are.  You  need 
not  say  I  gave  them  to  you. ' ' 

"I  guess  not.  But  suppose  I  was  just  to  stay  and 
help  you?"  The  uncertainty  of  an  undecided  na- 
ture, increased  by  slight  intoxication,  came  upon 
him  as  he  reflected  upon  the  obligation  which  his  aid 
would  impose  on  Grace.  Here  was  a  fine  chance. 

"A  good  dose  of  spirits  of  hartshorn  helps  'em," 
he  added.  "We  '11  give  him  that.  I  '11  go  and  get 
it  right  away." 

Blount  replied : 

"Craig,  you  go  now,  at  once,  out  of  this  room. 
Get  to  town  as  quickly  as  you  can.  Mr.  Grace 
must  never  know  you  were  here.  He  will  not  re- 
member. Now  go,  and  don't  forget — Bedford." 
He  took  the  reluctant  clerk  by  the  arm  and  to  the 
head  of  the  stair,  Craig  protesting  but  yielding  to 
the  superior  will.  Here  he  halted,  dully  obstinate. 

' '  And  so  you  're  to  get  all  the  credit  ? "  he  said. 

' '  Credit !  You  little  animal !  If  you  were  ever 
scared  you  ought  to  be  now.  If  you  do  not  go  at 
once  and  do  as  we  agreed,  and  if  ever  you  tell  it 
will  be  the  worst  day  of  your  mean  little  life. 
That  's  all  of  it.  Off  with  you  now,  and  keep  a  close 
tongue." 


376  CIRCUMSTANCE 

This  time  the  savage  emphasis  of  the  grip  on  his 
arm  and  the  anger  of  the  tones  frightened  Craig. 
He  went  as  he  was  bidden,  without  further  words, 
but  humiliated  and  revengeful,  feeling  that  he  was 
being  set  aside  and  cheated  out  of  an  opportunity  to 
better  himself.  He  left  Carlisle  at  early  morning, 
with  a  head  heavy  and  aching.  No  one  questioned 
his  statement,  and  for  a  day  or  two  not  even  to  his 
sister  did  he  tell  the  story.  It  was  a  valuable  pos- 
session. How  should  he  use  it? 


XXXVIII 

sure  that  Craig  had  gone,  Martin 
closed  the  door,  lit  a  second  candle,  and 
sat  at  the  bedside  of  the  friend  who 
had  so  unaccountably  fallen.  It  would 
have  been  hard  for  his  most  familiar 
acquaintance  to  have  recognized  Roger  Grace  in  the 
uneasy  sleeper  over  whom  Blount  kept  a  watch  al- 
most as  uneasy.  Life  had  dealt  harshly  with  Mar- 
tin, but  his  sharp  New  England  training,  his  own 
sobriety,  and  all  his  ideals  of  life  made  the  banker's 
strange  downfall  a  personal  affliction  to  this  debtor 
of  his  kindness.  What  to  many  men  in  the  world  of 
ease  would  have  seemed  a  trifle  to  be  heard  and  for- 
gotten assumed  for  Blount  a  sad  and  very  grave  im- 
portance. Tears  were  rolling  down  his  cheeks  as  he 
sat  and  thought  of  the  man's  generous  goodness,  of 
the  little  ladies  who  honored  him,  of  what  Mrs. 
Swanwick  would  think.  The  door  opened  and  the 
landlord  entered. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 
Blount  related  what  had  happened,  not  speaking 
of  Craig,  and  said  how  queer  it  was  he  himself  should 
have  been  in  the  entry  just  at  that  moment,  and  that, 
as  he  had  said,  Mr.  Rogers  was  an  old  friend,  and 
why  had  the  landlord  deceived  him  ? 
377 


378  CIRCUMSTANCE 

The  landlord  was  somewhat  embarrassed,  but  an- 
swered at  last : 

"Well,  he  's  an  old  customer,  and  when  he  gets 
this  way  he  gives  me  his  money  and  it  goes  on  a  week 
or  two.  He  likes  it  kept  quiet.  Then  I  help  him 
to  taper  off.  You  just  leave  him  to  me;  he  ought 
to  have  a  good  nip  when  he  wakes  up.  I  '11  leave  it 
here.  Are  you  minded  to  stay  ?  He  does  n  't  care  to 
have  anybody  know.  Me  and  my  man  look  after 
him." 

Blount  was  not  to  be  moved,  and  said  he  was  a 

v    kind  of  doctor,  and  he  would  see  to  the  liquor.     The 

host,  rather  uneasy,  but  glad  of  a  relief,  for  Grace 

had  been  harder  to  manage  than  on  former  occasions, 

went  away. 

The  night  passed,  and  the  watcher  saw  the  gray 
light  of  dawn.  Suddenly  Grace  sat  up,  and  made 
evident  effort  to  recover  his  wandering  faculties. 

"I  want  a  drink,  Ulrich."  Blount  brought  him 
iced  water. 

"No,  drink  this."  He  did  not  recognize  Blount, 
"Mr.  Grace,  you  cannot  have  any  liquor."  Eager 
cravings  stirred  the  dull  mind. 

"Give  it  to  me.     I  want  it." 

Martin  said: 

"No,  not  a  drop."  He  crossed  the  room,  opened 
the  closed  shutters,  came  back,  and  wiped  the  man's 
face  with  iced  water.  It  revived  him,  for  liquor  had 
been  allowed  him  in  lessening  quantities  for  several 
days. 

"  My  God ! "  he  said,  "  it  is  Martin  Blount !  What 
brought  you  here  ? ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  379 

"A  good  chance,"  said  Blount.  "Now  take  this 
cold  water  and  go  to  sleep  again.  Don't  talk,  not 
yet." 

Grace  fell  back  and  slept  once  more.  At  seven  he 
sat  up,  with  his  head  reasonably  clear.  He  prayed 
for  more  drink,  threatened,  and  got  up  to  look  for 
what  he  failed  to  find.  The  bottle  was  gone.  Blount 
locked  the  door,  and  was  not  to  be  moved,  until 
Grace  gave  up,  and  submitted  to  the  will  of  his 
attendant. 

By  nine  o'clock  he  had  been  made  to  bathe  and 
dress  and  to  take  his  breakfast.  He  was  silent, 
obeyed  like  a  child,  and  now  and  then  cast  mournful 
looks  of  pleading  or  humiliation  on  Martin.  The 
lines  of  enfeebling  ravage,  the  heavy,  swollen  lids, 
the  slackened  look  of  lost  energy  told  their  wretched 
story;  but  the  brain  was  recovering,  the  immense 
vitality  of  the  man  was  seizing  again  the  fallen  reins 
V^  of  self-control.  He  uttered  a  sentence  from  time  to 
time,  brief,  disjointed,  and  then  was  long  speechless. 
At  last,  seated  on  a  creaking  lounge  at  the  open  win- 
dow', he  said,  with  a  faint  smile:  "May  I  have  a 
cigar,  Martin?  Look  in  my  case  on  the  table." 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"It  tastes  good.  You  must  not  let  me  drink  any 
more.  By  evening  I  shall  not  need  it,  not  for  a  year. 
I  must  get  away  to  Bedford  at  once.  How  long  am 
I  here?" 

"About  thirteen  days." 

"That  is  terrible!  Two  weeks!  That  is  longer 
than  usual." 

"Than  usual?"  asked  Blount,  surprised. 


380  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Yes.  This  comes  once  in  three  or  four  years, 
and  then  I  am  lost,  damned,  gone!" 

Blount  looked  the  amazement  he  felt.  Nothing  in 
his  own  nature  or  experience  explained  this  inexor- 
able appetite.  Archer  could  have  told  him  that  it 
was  a  form  of  the  drink  craving  which,  though  rare, 
is  in  a  very  few  an  almost  uncontrollable  form  of 
alcoholic  temptation. 

"Please,  sir,  not  to  talk  of  it  now.  I  have  with  me 
all  your  letters  and  telegrams.  You  may  like  to  see 
them.  If  you  are  at  all  able  I  think  you  must  go  to 
the  city.  We  will  drive  about  to-day,  and  to-mor- 
row—  " 

"Let  me  see  a  paper — yesterday's."  He  was  at 
once  anxious.  Martin  came  back  with  New  York 
and  Philadelphia  journals.  Grace  turned  in  haste 
to  the  stock-list,  tore  open  letters  and  telegrams. 
No  alterative  could  have  been  so  potent,  no  drug  so 
tone-giving.  He  stood  up  and  said:  "We  must  go 
to  the  city  at  once,  to-day.  Get  me  a  time-table." 

' '  Certainly, ' '  said  Martin ;  ' '  but  think  a  little. 
You  cannot  be  fit,  or  be  made  fit,  for  instant  work. 
And  it  is  too  late  now.  Let  us  get  on  horseback  this 
morning,  and  walk  about  in  the  afternoon.  We  can 
get  to  Harrisburg  to-night,  and  home  with  ease  in 
the  after  part  of  the  day,  to-morrow. ' ' 

Grace  refused,  until  he  found  that  to  reach  the 
city  that  night  was  impossible.  "Very  well,  have 
your  way.  Please  to  wire  Mr.  West  and  Archer  in 
my  name  to  meet  me  at  the  office  at  6  P.M.  to-morrow. 
Wire  to  these  three  bank  presidents  to  be  there. 
Stop !  I  must  write  the  names.  You  will  leave  me 


CIRCUMSTANCE  381 

at  this  station  to-morrow.  I  have  been  ill— add  that. 
You  had  best  go  back  to  Bedford. ' ' 

Blount  was  amazed  at  this  swift  revival  of  capa- 
city. He  hesitated,  as  he  said : 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  but  are  you— safe?" 

"Yes,  I  am  safe.     No  wonder  you  ask." 

The  ride  and  the  walk  were  taken,  and  at  evening, 
when  James  Rogers  settled  his  account  with  a  liberal 
hand,  the  neat,  clean-shaven  gentleman  with  whom 
Blount  walked  to  the  station  was  a  metamorphosed 
being.  As  they  rode  or  walked  during  the  day 
Blount  answered  his  questions  as  to  how  he  had 
chanced  upon  him.  Of  Craig  he  said  not  a  word. 
He  meant  at  some  time  to  do  so.  He  knew  how  it 
would  disturb  Grace,  whose  sensitiveness  about  this 
masterful  appetite  had  become  painfully  apparent  in 
the  repeated  cautions  he  expressed  to  the  man  who 
needed  none.  He  would  wait  and  see. 

The  more  he  saw  of  Grace  the  more  wise  did  it 
seem  to  let  the  matter  wait.  The  banker  should 
go  back  without  this  added  trouble.  He  was  of 
opinion  that  soon  or  late  Craig  would  betray  his 
trust,  but  meanwhile  it  was  well  not  to  be  too  sure  of 
this,  and  if  Craig  could  be  kept  in  order  Grace 
would  be  saved  a  serious  addition  to  the  annoyances 
likely  to  arise  out  of  a  sad  business. 

That  evening,  when  Grace  parted  from  Blount,  he 
said: 

"I  shall  sleep  at  Harrisburg,  and  be  at  home  to- 
morrow in  time  for  my  engagements.  I  think  that 
now  you  may  see  your  way  to  accepting  my  offer 
about  my  books." 


382  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Martin  said  he  would  think  about  it.  With  Craig 
in  his  mind  there  seemed  fair  reason  why  this  time 
he  might  for  a  double  cause  say  yes. 

Grace  said :  ' '  Write  to  me,  and  come  soon.  I  owe 
you  a  debt  I  can  never  pay,  and.  Martin,  I  have  a 
long  memory."  Blount  looked  up  at  him.  ''The 
debt  was  paid  long  ago."  They  shook  hands  with- 
out other  words,  and  the  young  man  stood  with  a 
grave,  set  face,  and  saw  the  train  pull  out  of  the 
station  and  disappear  through  a  gap  in  the  hills.  A 
little  later  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  Bedford,  re- 
flecting on  Grace's  renewed  offer  and  on  the  difficult 
problem  of  whether  Craig  would  keep  quiet.  He 
settled  the  first  question  with  ease,  and  was  not  long 
in  deciding  what  to  do.  He  wrote  Archer  that  he 
had  a  good  reason  for  not  staying  where  he  was— 
could  he  not  get  some  work  in  town?  Archer  was 
puzzled.  It  was  unlike  Blount.  He  wrote  in  reply 
that  he  might  help  him  in  his  laboratory,  but  that 
he  was  not  able  to  pay  an  assistant.  He  spoke  of  it 
to  Grace,  who  said : 

"Let  him  come  to  me  and  arrange  my  books,  as  I 
once  asked  him  to  do.  This  would  leave  him  at  least 
the  half  of  the  day  free." 

Very  joyfully  Blount  gave  up  his  place.  What  he 
had  declined  before  he  felt  that  he  could  now  will- 
ingly accept,  since  it  would  enable  him  to  keep  an 
eye  on  Craig  and,  at  need,  to  consult  Archer;  but 
that  must  be  a  last  resort,  for  this  very  practical 
young  man  had  carefully  listened  to  Grace's  cau- 
tions and  as  carefully  kept  himself  from  any  promise 
of  secrecy.  He  was,  however,  much  troubled,  and 


CIECUMSTANCE  383 

not  without  cause,  though  he  comforted  himself  with 
the  idea  that  Craig  could  not  afford  to  lose  his  place, 
that  Grace  was  too  formidable  to  offend,  and  that 
very  likely  Craig  would  prudently  remember  what 
had  been  said  to  him. 


XXXIX 

FEW  minutes  before  six  Roger  Grace 
walked,  smiling,  into  his  own  private 
office.  His  partners  and  Archer  greeted 
him  warmly.  He  gave  no  explanation 
of  his  silence  and  long  absence.  None 
was  asked ;  he  was  a  man  whom  people  did  not  ques- 
tion. He  had  the  habit  of  taciturn  attention;  men 
talked  on  and  said  to  him  things  they  had  not  meant 
to  say.  On  his  way  home  he  had  deeply  studied  the 
situation.  Now  he  began: 

"I  see,  Archer,  that  the  Republic  Trust  has 
stopped  payment,  and  that  Thurston  has  run  away. 
Let  us  deal  with  this  first.  It  is  a  bad  case,  I  fear. ' ' 
Pencil  in  hand,  cheerful  and  competent,  he  made 
notes  as  his  questions  were  answered. 

"Did  Fairthorne  sell?"  he  asked  his  counsel. 
"What!  And  at  sixty-five?"  He  noted  the  amount, 
"We  must  set  it  up  again.  This  little  panic  will 
not  last."  He  ran  over  a  list  of  names  and  securi- 
ties. "Among  us  we  must  help  about  half  of  these 
men."  He  went  on,  clear,  confident,  pleasantly  de- 
cisive, until  the  bank  presidents  came.  With  their 
consultation,  which  lasted  until  nine  o'clock,  this  tale 
has  nothing  to  do. 

"There  is  no  one  like  him,"  said  his  partner  to 
384 


i 


CIRCUMSTANCE  385 

Archer,  as  Grace  left  them.  "But  his  absence  has 
cost  us  dear,  and  where  the  deuce  was  he  ? " 

' '  Ask  him, ' '  said  Archer. 

"Not  I." 

Grace  went  home  exhausted;  he  had  gone  since 
morning  without  food,  and  despite  his  rude  health 
he  was  not  yet  the  man  he  had  been  a  fortnight 
before. 

Miss  Clementina  met  him  in  the  hall,  a  trifle  shy, 
a  trifle  red,  glad  to  see  him.  He  greeted  her  coldly, 
said  he  was  tired,  and  asked  for  supper.  He  ate  it 
in  silence  and  went  up-stairs,  where  he  found  Knell- 
wood  in  his  study.  They  shook  hands,  and  Grace 
lit  a  cigar. 

"Yes,  I  am  back,  and  find  that  my  absence  has 
hurt  many. ' ' 

"But  you  could  not  help  it,"  said  Knell  wood. 

"No,  but — the  cost,  the  cost!  It  ends  the  only 
dream  of  my  life,  Knellwood.  You  really  must  feel 
by  this  time  that  I  am  right.  I  shall  get  away,  go 
to  the  country — forget,  if  I  can.  I  may  have  com- 
mitted myself,  but,  whether  or  not,  anything  is  bet- 
ter for  her  than  to  marry  a  sot.  I  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment that  I  would  tell  her." 

"That  would  be  best,"  said  Knellwood. 

"No,  I  cannot." 

"You  are  wrong,  altogether  wrong,  unjust  to 
yourself,  unfair  to  a  woman.  Let  her  choose. ' ' 

"I  dare  not.  She  might—  Ah!  I  c"annot  run 
even  the  small  risk  of  her  saying  yes.  And  then,  if 
this  awful  thing  gets  to  be  known ! ' ' 

"How  can  it?     Take  my  advice.     You  are  too 

25 


386  CIRCUMSTANCE 

near  it  all  for  thought  to  be  reasonable.  Talk  some 
day  to  Archer.  It  is  a  malaria  of  the  mind,  of  the 
morals.  Go  to  bed  now. ' ' 

"What  a  good  fellow  you  are,"  Grace  said,  smiling. 
"So  Archer  won't  let  you  work?  Come  out  to  the 
farm." 

"Perhaps,  after  a  while." 

"How  is  Miss  Letitia?     I  did  not  see  her." 

"As  always,"  said  Knellwood.  "Miss  Fairthorne 
says  she  is  like  a  dried  primrose  dropped  out  of  one 's 
grandmama's  Bible." 

"That  's  pretty  and  gentle.  Well,  good  night, 
Knellwood." 

The  next  day,  at  evening,  Grace  went  away  to  his 
farm  near  Edgewood,  saying  that  he  would  keep  his 
rooms,  of  course;  he  might  need  them.  He  really 
meant  not  to  return  in  the  fall.  When,  at  the  end  of 
a  week  he  had  not  been  near  them,  Clementina  set 
herself  to  accept  the  disaster  of  her  broken  romance, 
and  to  persuade  herself  that,  after  all,  it  had  been 
mere  kindness.  Life  had  not  been  tender  to  the 
little  gentlewoman  and  now  she  was  hit  hard  and 
felt  it  perhaps  more  than  the  rich  or  prosperous 
could  have  done.  She  was  a  woman  of  good  mind, 
and  as  she  prepared  to  accept  a  darkened  life  she 
tried  to  think  calmly  of  what  had  caused  his  abrupt 
change.  No !  She  was  too  feminine  not  to  be  sure 
of  what  Roger  Grace  must  have  wished.  He  was  a 
reasonable,  a  kindly,  and  a  good  man. 

' '  Not  quite  like  us,  dear, ' '  said  Letitia ;  ' '  that  needs 
generations.  But  a  very  nice  man.  One  really  might 
hesitate  to  say  he  is  a  gentleman,  in  our  sense. ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  387 

"But  would  you  say  he  is  not  one?"  returned 
Clementina,  a  little  hurt.  What  did  she  care  ?  She 
loved  him,  and— oh,  if  she  could  only  ask  frankly 
what  she  had  done,  for  to  seek  the  blame  there  was 
as  natural  to  her  as  to  seek  it  elsewhere  would  have 
been  to  many. 

Knellwood  alone  understood  this  simple  tragedy, 
and  watched  its  effects,  pitiful  and  touched. 

Meanwhile,  the  days  went  by  as  usual  at  Edge- 
wood,  no  better,  no  worse.  Pilgrim,  now  able  to 
walk  out,  put  off  his  visit  day  after  day,  hating  to 
face  Mrs.  Hunter  again.  Blount,  of  whom  Grace 
asked  no  further  questions,  was  at  the  farm  or  in 
town,  delighted  to  aid  Archer  in  his  laboratory  study 
of  South  American  arrow  poisons,  or  to  find  time 
for  a  visit  to  Margaret  Swanwick,  and  to  see  the 
pleasant  people  who  to  him  were  so  new  and  so 
fresh.  He  had  meant  to  keep  some  watch  upon 
Craig,  and  had  a  young  fellow's  kindly  dream  of  in- 
fluencing the  man  for  good.  He  did  manage  to  meet 
him,  but  it  was  only  to  escape  in  disgust,  or  to  hear 
him  boast  of  what  he  could  do  with  Grace,  and  that 
he  was  as  safe  as  a  bank,  which  just  then  lacked 
value  as  a  comparison.  It  was  impossible  not  to  dis- 
trust him  and  his  confident  protests.  Blount  began 
to  foresee  trouble.  Should  he  warn  Grace,  or  tell 
Dr.  Archer?  An  older  man  would  have  been  less 
puzzled.  But  what,  after  all,  could  a  fellow  like 
Craig  do?  It  was  not  in  Blount  to  have  imagined 
what  did  happen. 

Of  a  Saturday  morning  Eoger  Grace,  pleased  at 
his  recent  financial  success  and  at  the  better  turn  of 


388  CIRCUMSTANCE 

affairs,  sat  looking  at  his  correspondence.  Of  a  sud- 
den his  face  changed,  as  he  read  a  letter,  sealed  with 
wax,  and  marked  ' '  Private. ' '  It  ran  thus : 

' 

"  I  know  all  about  you  in  Carlisle.  If  you  will  send  a  check 
to  bearer  for  three  hundred  dollars,  to  Cyrus  Peters,  General 
Post-Office,  I  will  never  tell.  If  you  do  not  send  it  in  three 
days  there  will  be  something  come  out  you  won't  like." 

Grace  sat  still,  looked  at  the  seal,  the  paper,  the 
writing.  He  was  terribly  perplexed.  It  is  hard  to 
conceive  how  disastrous  the  chance  of  this  revelation 
appeared  to  him.  He  seemed  to  see  the  sensational 
headlines  in  the  Sunday  papers,  the  dastardly 
phrases  the  baser  newspaper  employs  to  conceal  the 
slanderer  and  without  use  of  a  name  to  make  clear 
who  is  stabbed. 

"Blackmail,"  said  Grace;  "if  I  send  it  that  is 
only  the  beginning.  If  I  set  a  watch  and  catch  him, 
it  will  all  come  out  from  mere  desire  of  revenge  or 
in  court.  Yes,  even  if  I  convict ;  but  how  could  he 
prove  it?  And  who  is  he?  I  am  lost!  It  is  what 
I  always  feared.  Who  could  know  ? ' '  He  dismissed 
instantly  the  idea  that  Blount  could  have  spoken  or 
that  any  one  in  Carlisle  could  have  known  him.  His 
precautions  had  always  been  excessive. 

But  if  it  came  out!  Oh,  if —  He  looked  back 
over  his  life  of  purity  and  absolute  rectitude,  thought 
of  John  Fairthorne's  sneer,  of  the  regret  of  the 
Swanwicks,  of  Archer,  of  the  men  who,  envying 
him,  would  fasten  on  this  story  with  amusement. 
With  all  his  positive  business  capacity,  he  was  a 
man  tenderly  sensitive  and  deeply  religious.  Now, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  389 

again  reflecting,  he  said  that  he  should  be  called  a 
hypocrite.  No,  he  must  pay,  but  first  he  must  talk 
to  Martin  Blount. 

When  that  evening  he  sat  with  Blount  in  the  par- 
lor of  the  gray  stone  farm-house,  he  handed  him  the 
letter  and  said: 

"Read  that." 

The  younger  man  showed  very  little  astonishment. 

"Well,  I  never  thought  he  would  do  as  mean  a 
thing  as  this." 

"Who,  Martin?" 

"Mr.  Grace,  I  see  now  I  may  have  been  wrong,  al- 
though whether  I  was  wrong  or  not  this  might  have 
happened.  Lionel  Craig  saw  you  with  me  at  Car- 
lisle. He  alone  could  have  written  that  letter." 
Then  he  related  what  had  occurred. 

Grace  smoked  quietly  until  he  had  heard  it  all, 
asked  a  question  or  two,  and  said : 

"You  should  have  warned  me." 

' '  At  first  I  could  n  't ;  you  were  awfully  upset,  sir, 
over  the  telegrams  and  letters.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  speaking  of  it,  and  then—  " 

"No,  you  were  right;  but  later — later — " 

"Ah,  he  promised  never  to  say  a  word  about  it.  I 
did  not  believe  him,  but  I  never  dreamed  of  a  thing 
like  this,  and  so  I  just  waited,  and  at  last  I  hated 
to  talk  to  you  about  it.  I  was  wrong.  When 
things  went  on  and  nothing  happened  I  just 
couldn't." 

Grace  sat  smoking  as  he  listened. 

"I  see  your  difficulty.  Had  I  known  I  should 
have  bribed  him  to  hold  his  tongue.  Now  he  has 


390  CIRCUMSTANCE 

asked  to  be  bribed.  Don't  worry  yourself  about  it. 
It  had  to  happen.  To  know  who  it  is  does  not  help 
me.  I  simply  cannot  afford  to  have  this  thing  get 
out." 

"But  you  won't  pay  this  beast?  Why,  sir,  there 
is  no  end  to  such  paying ! ' ' 

"I  know." 

"But,  excuse  me,  sir,  it  would  be  wrong — wicked." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

Martin  was  bewildered  for  a  moment.  He  had  ex- 
pected an  outburst  of  anger  and  swift,  resolute  re- 
prisal. It  seemed  to  him  easy  to  arrest  the  man  and 
finish  the  matter.  He  was  sure,  from  what  he  knew 
of  Craig,  that  the  mere  threat  of  arrest  would  end  it. 
But  Grace  had  said  he  meant  to  pay,  after  which 
they  sat  a  long  while,  neither  of  them  speaking,  both 
busily  thinking. 

The  two  men  had  many  characteristics  in  common, 
but  the  successful  banker  was  by  far  the  more  sen- 
sitive person.  Perhaps,  too,  he  overestimated  the 
value  of  the  society  which  was  pleasantly  accepting 
him,  and  also  the  force  of  its  opinion  and  the  inter- 
est with  which  it  regarded  passing  events.  Either 
Archer  or  Masters  could  have  told  him  that  few  peo- 
ple would  care,  and  that  those  who  did  would  forget 
it  in  a  fortnight.  Perhaps  what  most  influenced 
his  timid  decision  was  the  thought  of  the  woman  in 
whom  he  had  developed  a  love  which  was  a  flower 
before  he  thought  it  could  be  a  bud.  He  was  an 
educable  man,  and  she,  in  her  refinements  of  person 
and  manners,  had  innocently  taught  him  much.  He 
had  come  to  value  her  opinion,  to  consult  her  tastes, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  391 

and  now  what  a  gulf  there  was  between  them!  He 
over-imagined  her  disgust,  and  what  she  might  say 
of  him. 

As  he  thus  sadly  tortured  himself,  the  younger 
man  was  more  wholesomely  busy.  He  looked  at 
Grace,  and  knew  that  for  himself,  at  least,  to  reason 
with  the  man  would  be  vain.  He  was  too  young  to 
have  weight  with  him.  The  fact  that  this  gnat  could 
sting  to  madness  of  folly  so  noble  a  life  as  that  of 
his  generous  benefactor  aroused  his  anger.  His 
wrath  was  the  greater  because  of  the  promise  Craig 
had  made  and  broken,  and  because  of  his  own  feeling 
that  he  had  been  an  idiot  to  trust  him  at  all.  He 
blamed  himself  for  this  and  accepted  the  thought 
that  he,  as  well  as  Mr.  Grace,  was  injured.  At  last 
he  said: 

"I  suppose,  sir,  this  scamp  will  not  draw  your 
check  before  Tuesday,  if,"  he  added,  "you  send  it." 
He  still  hoped  for  a  better  way  out  of  it.  In  his 
trouble  he  ventured  to  say,  "I  do  wish  you  would 
just  arrest  the  fellow." 

The  banker  rose,  and,  with  a  hand  on  Martin's 
shoulder,  said :  "I  do  not  wish  to  discuss  this  matter 
further.  My  mind  is  made  up.  I  shall  mail  my 
check  to-morrow.  Fortunately  for  you,  you  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  it.  You  acted  as  seemed 
best  to  you,  and  I  least  of  all  blame  you.  Let  us  drop 
it."  For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  and  then  went 
on:  "It  is  due  to  you,  who  wonder  at  my  decision, 
to  say  that  I  have  imperative  motives  and  reasons 
about  which  I  cannot  talk.  Most  men  would  say 
weaknesses.  I  am  ashamed,  Martin,  to  recall  for 


392  CIRCUMSTANCE 

you  and  myself  what  you  saw.  It  is  horrible !  I 
would,  at  need,  bury  it  in  gold.  Never  let  us  speak 
of  it  again.  It  has  cost  too  much,  too  much  of  things 
better  than  gold ;  and  now  this  is  between  us,  never 
speak  of  it.  What  are  you  doing  with  Archer  at 
the  laboratory?  It  interests  me."  He  discussed 
Blount's  reply  with  intelligence,  and  seemed  able 
calmly  to  dismiss  what  kept  incessantly  distracting 
Blount.  But  when  night  came  Grace  lay  awake,  as 
he  rarely  did,  for  not  without  pain  of  mind  does  a 
strong  man  become  the  fool  of  fear. 

As  there  was  work  to  be  watched  in  the  labora- 
tory Martin  took  an  early  train  to  the  city  on  Mon- 
day. He  had  passed  through  the  stage  of  anger 
into  a  condition  of  stern  resolve  to  settle  with  Craig. 
He  felt  the  necessity  as  he  usually  felt  a  debt.  He 
found  that  Archer  had  left  directions  which  would 
give  him  a  full  day's  work.  He  said  to  himself  that 
Craig  would  keep,  and  gave  him  that  day  no  further 
thought. 

On  the  morning  of  Tuesday  he  disposed  of  the 
laboratory  work  very  early.  As  he  passed  through 
Archer's  library  he  picked  up  a  slim  bamboo  cane. 
and,  swinging  it  vindictively,  went  away  toward 
Market  Street.  When,  in  a  third-class  hotel,  he  asked 
the  clerk  if  Mr.  Craig  were  in  he  replied  that  he  was, 
and  that  he  guessed  he  would  be  all  day.  Blount 
announced,  without  mental  reserve,  that  he  was 
Craig's  friend,  and  went  up-stairs. 

His  knock  was  not  answered,  and  he  had  to  make 
an  unseemly  noise  before  his  louder  summons 
brought  Craig  to  the  door  in  a  shabby  dressing- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  393 

gown.  He  was  sober,  but  red-eyed  from  his  de- 
bauch of  the  preceding  night. 

"Oh,  it  's  you,"  said  Craig. 

"Yes,  it  is  I."  He  went  in,  and  locking  the  door 
put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"What  's  that  for?"  said  Craig,  in  alarm.  His 
mind  at  once  reverted  to  the  letter.  Ever  since, 
with  the  cheerful  courage  of  alcohol,  he  had  sent  it 
and  even  after  receiving  Grace's  reply  it  had  been  a 
source  of  terror.  He  was  now  nervous  and  fearful. 

"You  get  out  of  here,"  he  said.  Something  in 
the  look  of  Blount  seemed  to  threaten,  and  the  rosy 
little  man  was  born  a  coward.  Blount  began  at 
once: 

"Sit  down,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Oh,  you 
won't?"  He  thrust  him  into  a  chair  and  stood  over 
him.  "Keep  quiet  and  listen  to  me.  You  lied  to 
me,  you  miserable  little  wretch.  You  promised  to 
hold  your  tongue  about  Mr.  Grace.  I  am  going  to 
take  it  out  of  your  hide.  I  said  I  would— I  warned 
you. ' ' 

Craig  cried  out  in  vain: 

"Murder!  Murder!  Please  don't.  I  was  tight. 
I  did  n  't  think  what  I  was  doing.  I  '11  never,  never 
do  it  again.  You  hurt  me." 

' ' Do  what  again ? ' '  asked  Blount.  "It  is  no  use  to 
howl.  I  shall  be  through  with  you  before  any  one 
can  come."  Then,  seeing  the  abject  terror  of  the 
man,  he  had  a  bright  idea.  "  If  I  don 't  beat  you  will 
you  tell  me  all  about  it?  And  mind  you,  I  shall 
know  if  you  lie.  You  can 't  fool  me  this  time.  Now, 
out  with  it. ' ' 


394  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Craig  began  to  consider  how  little  he  need  tell. 

' '  Well, ' '  and  the  bamboo  shook  ominously.  ' '  You 
said  you  would  never  speak  of  it.  You  did  talk." 

"I  swear  I  never  told  any  one  but  my  sister." 

"Mrs.  Hunter!  You  told  her?"  exclaimed  Mar- 
tin, astonished. 

"Oh,  she  won't  tell.  She  said  I  was  a  fool  to 
talk."  This  was  also  Martin's  opinion.  He  had 
heard  enough  of  the  secretary  to  know  that  she  was 
disliked  by  Mrs.  Swanwick.  Was  she,  too,  by  any 
possibility  concerned  in  the  letter  to  Grace?  He 
had  heard  Archer  speak  of  her  as  an  adventuress. 
He  said,  quickly : 

"You  are  thinking,  you  cur,  how  little  you  must 
tell  to  get  out  of  a  bad  scrape.  Now,  take  care  how 
you  answer  me.  Was  she  in  the  whole  of  this 
business  ? ' ' 

"What  business?     I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

Blount  's  patience  was  at  an  end.  The  bamboo  fell 
cruelly  across  Craig's  shoulders,  as  Martin  cried  out : 

"You  liar!"  This  time  Craig  was  conquered. 
He  whimpered: 

"That  hurt.     I  '11  tell  if  you— if  you  won't—" 

"No,  I  will  let  you  off  if  you  speak  out.  I  said 
I  would,  but  you  believe  nobody.  Now,  perhaps  you 
know  I  am  in  earnest." 

"Well,"  said  Craig,  sullenly,  "what  do  you 
want?" 

"Does  your  sister  know  what  you  have  done? 
Come,  now." 

"No,  she  don't." 

"When  did  you  do  it?" 


CIECUMSTANCE  395 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  Mr.  Grace?" 

"I!    No,  indeed.     When  was  it?" 

"When  was  what?" 

"I  think  you  must  be  itching  for  the  rest  of  that 
thrashing.  What  a  fool  you  are!" 

Craig  looked  up  at  the  grim  and  lowering  face. 
"I  wrote  it  on  Friday.  I  was  n't  myself.  If  you 
won't  tell  Mr.  Grace  I  '11  swear  I  '11  never  do  it 
again."  For  a  moment  he  was  of  a  mind  to  hand 
over  Grace's  letter  and  the  check  to  bearer  which 
he  had  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  reconsidered  it; 
Grace  would  not  know.  For  once  he  believed; 
Blount  had  declared  that  he  would  not  tell  Grace. 
"You  promise  me  you  won't  tell  Mr.  Grace? 
You  swear?" 

"I  never  swear,"  said  Martin.  "I  said  I  would 
not  tell  him.  You  may  be  sure."  Then  Craig  de- 
termined to  keep  the  money. 

Blount  let  go  his  hold  and  sat  down.  The  thought 
of  securing  the  letter  Grace  wrote  did  not  occur  to 
him.  He  was  otherwise  occupied.  He  now  knew 
all  about  it,  and  not  alone  from  Grace.  He  was 
free  to  speak  out  to  Archer,  for  he  felt  entirely  as- 
sured that  the  man  at  his  side  would  talk  freely  when 
again  in  liquor,  and  be  still  capable  of  doing  mis- 
chief. How  to  provide  against  this  he  did  not  know. 
It  was  like  dealing  with  a  half-imbecile  child. 
Archer  might  help  him.  He  was  sure,  at  all  events, 
that  the  blackmailing  had  come  to  an  end.  But 
what  of  the  sister?  These  thoughts  passed  rapidly 
through  his  mind  as  he  sat.  Craig,  furtively 
watchful,  said  for  a  moment  no  word,  but  as  Blount 


396  CIRCUMSTANCE 

rose  he  spoke.  ' '  You  said  you  would  n  't  tell  Grace  ? 
You  won't  go  and  tell  any  one?" 

"I  make  no  other  promises.  If  you  do  not  keep 
straight  and  quit  drinking  I  may  have  to  see  if 
your  sister  can  do  anything  with  you. ' '  Craig 's  un- 
easiness was  very  evident.  Blount  continued:  "Re- 
member one  thing:  if  Mr.  Grace  gets  to  know  who 
wrote  that  letter  you  will  be  in  the  penitentiary  in 
no  time.  I  came  here  on  my  own  quarrel.  We  are 
quits."  It  was  like  him  to  turn  back  and,  with 
some  sense  of  pity,  to  say: 

"Why  don't  you  quit  drinking  and  behave  your- 
self? If  you  would  just  try  I  would  help  you." 

"Oh,  you  go  away  and  let  me  alone.  You  've 
bullied  me  enough,  and  now  you  want  to  talk  Sun- 
day-school. ' ' 

Blount 's  face  grew  hard;  he  made  no  reply,  but 
went  out  and  down  the  stairs.  It  was  now  one 
o'clock  and,  as  he  had  expected,  he  found  Archer  at 
home  and  about  to  lunch. 

"Sit  down,  Blount,"  he  said;  "you  are  doing  my 
work  very  well.  There  is  nothing  like  the  laboratory 
to  train  a  man  to  exactness.  Individuality  must 
always  keep  our  work  at  the  bedside  more  or  less  an 
art.  It  never  can  have  the  precision  of  science  so 
long  as  one  man  differs  from  another.  So  long  as 
men  so  differ  there  will  be  the  chance  of  our  being 
unable  to  foresee  results  with  certainty." 

Such  talk  usually  delighted  Blount ;  now  he  failed 
to  respond,  and  only  said:  "I  came  here  to  talk 
to  you  about  something  serious.  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  am  right  to  talk." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  397 

"Then  don't." 

"But  I  must." 

"Then  talk.  By  St.  Mayflower!  You  Yankees 
are  queer  folk.  That  ship  must  have  carried  a 
heavy  freight  of  conscience.  It  has  lasted  long. 
What  's  the  matter,  Martin?" 

"I  will  try  to  state  it.  While  Mr.  Grace  was 
away  a  very  unpleasant  thing  happened.  I  was 
there  and  saw  it.  It  concerned  Mr.  Grace,  and  it  is 
a  thing  which  ought  never  to  get  out." 

"Indeed!"  Archer  took  up  a  paper-knife  and 
began  to  bend  and  handle  it,  a  trick  he  had  when 
attentive  to  a  patient's  talk. 

"I  made  some  kind  of  promise  to  Mr.  Grace  not 
to  speak  of  it. ' ' 

"You  are  not  going  to  now?" 

"Oh,  no ;  but  if  you  will  just  let  me  go  on  you  will 
see  why  I  want  advice." 

"Very  good.     Go  on." 

"I  said  it  must  not  get  out.  Now,  what  I  saw  a 
fellow  named  Craig  saw  too.  He  's  a  brother  of 
that  Mrs.  Hunter  and  is  a  clerk  in  Mr.  Grace 's  office. 
Do  you  know  him,  sir  ? " 

"I  think  I  have  seen  him.  I  cannot  say  I  know 
him." 

"Well,  he  is  a  pretty  little  man,  without  a  shred 
of  character.  He  gambles,  and  drinks,  and  gabbles. 
He  swore  he  would  never  speak  of  this  matter.  But 
he  did ;  he  told  his  sister. ' ' 

"Oh,  his  sister!     And  what  next,  Martin?" 

"I  went  there  to-day  to  lick  him  because  he  lied 
to  me." 


398  CIRCUMSTANCE 

' '  The  remedy  was  heroic. ' ' 

"I  did  n't  hurt  him  much,  because  he  broke  up 
and  confessed  the  whole  thing. ' ' 

"Confessed  what?" 

"Why,  that  he  had  told  his  sister  and  the  rest." 

"What  else?  Let  me  hear  it  all.  You  are  rather 
exasperating  as  a  story-teller." 

"Now,  that  's  where  my  difficulty  comes  in.  You 
see,  I  myself  am  pledged  to  Mr.  Grace  not  to  speak 
of  it.  Then  this  man  tells  me  to-day— oh,  I  made 
him— the  whole  story,  and  what  he  did.  Now,  I 
want  to  ask  you  if,  after  I  hear  it  all  from  another 
than  Mr.  Grace,  shall  I  do  wrong  to  tell  you  ? ' ' 

Archer  reflected. 

"Are  you  sure  that  to  do  so  will  be  of  any  service 
to  Mr.  Grace?" 

"I  don't  know.  Unless  some  one  is  able  to  stop 
this  fellow  he  will  babble  it  out  in  every  bar-room. 
He  has  done  worse  already.  I  think  he  is  afraid  of 
his  sister,  for  he  begged  me  not  to  tell  her.  I  said 
I  would  not  promise." 

Archer  got  up  and  walked  about,  while  Blount 
waited. 

"Martin,  years  ago,  when  I  was  young  like  you, 
and  pretty  nearly  penniless,  I  went  to  ask  Mr.  Grace 
if  he  would  take  as  security  a  mortgage  on  a  small 
property  of  my  mother's  in  the  South,  and  lend  me 
money  to  secure  me  a  year  in  Germany.  He  talked 
to  me  awhile,  and  said  no,  but  that  he  would  lend 
me  the  money  on  my  personal  pledge  to  pay  when 
I  could.  He  was  not  then  as  he  is  now,  a  very 
rich  man.  I  took  it  frankly.  If  I  can  help  him  in 


CIRCUMSTANCE  399 

any  trouble  I  am  at  his  service  and  yours.     I  think 
you  may  speak  freely.     I  suppose  it  is  a  woman." 

"Oh,  no,  sir!"  said  Blount,  much  relieved. 
"Craig  and  I  saw  Mr.  Grace  at  Carlisle  drunk." 

' '  What-  Grace  ?     Incredible ! ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is  true.  I  think  that  it  must  be  a 
very  rare  thing  in  him." 

Archer  had  heard  of  the  banker's  unaccountable 
absences.     He  at  once  remembered  two  other  cases 
of  this  strange  form  of  temptation.     "Well,  go  on.    * 
What  next?" 

"Craig  had  himself  been  drinking.  I  persuaded 
him  to  go  away  before  Mr.  Grace  was  able  to  recog- 
nize any  one."  He  went  on  to  relate  what  had 
passed,  and  Craig's  confession  of  the  blackmailing 
letter.  Archer  said : 

' '  That  is  a  queer  tale,  but  the  matter  seems  simple. 
Mr.  Grace  has  only  to  arrest  the  man." 

"He  won't.     He  has  paid." 

"Not  really!" 

"Yes,  and  I  can't  explain  it.  He  's  like  a  scared 
girl  about  it,  and  he  '11  go  on  paying  if  that  fellow 
asks  him;  and,  as  if  that  is  n't  enough,  the  scamp 
will  be  sure  to  get  drunk  and  talk.  I  said  he  had 
told  his  sister.  Cannot  you  do  something,  Dr. 
Archer  ? ' ' 

"I  think  I  can,  Martin.  I  will  try."  He  knew 
that  he  must  not  speak  to  Grace.  He  ought  to  re- 
cover the  letter  and  check  and  have  a  more  distinct 
confession.  That  would  surely  end  it.  Merely 
again  to  scare  the  young  man  would  be  useless. 
There  was  still  Mrs.  Hunter.  Over  this  he  hesitated 


400  CIRCUMSTANCE 

long.  A  part  of  his  indecision  was  due  to  his  diffi- 
culty in  comprehending  the  motive  which  had  influ- 
enced Grace.  He  had  in  himself  nothing  which 
could  explain  to  him  how  such  a  man  could  become 
the  easy  victim  of  a  drunken  boy. 

When  at  last  he  fully  decided  to  act  through  Lu- 
cretia  he  believed  that  he  was  swayed  alone  by  the 
feeling  that  it  was  right  to  serve  one  who  had  helped 
him,  and  that  it  was  a  wise  thing  to  do.  That  his 
intense  dislike  of  Mrs.  Hunter  had  any  effect  in 
bringing  about  his  final  determination  he  was  far 
from  apprehending.  Nor  was  he  yet  sure  that  she 
might  not  have  had  a  hand  in  the  matter,  and  if  so 
she  would  be  in  his  power  and  must  go.  The 
thought  was  one  more  proof  of  how  little  he  under- 
stood Lucretia.  Leaving  out  Grace,  the  most  effi- 
cient motive  which  urged  him  to  act  through  Mrs. 
Hunter  was  Blount's  unfaltering  conviction  that  no 
ordinary  motives  would  permanently  stop  the  tongue 
of  Lionel  Craig. 


XL 


we  have  said,  on  Sunday  Grace  had 
sent  his  cheek  for  three  hundred  "to 
bearer"  to  the  address  given  in  Craig's 
note.  Reflection  had  only  strength- 
ened his  desire  to  bribe  the  man  to 
silence.  He  asked  for  Craig  on  Monday  morning, 
and  was  told  that  he  was  absent  and  said  to  be  sick. 
To  the  surprise  of  West,  he  made  no  comment,  but 
plunged  at  once  into  the  details  of  a  difficult  suit 
against  a  Chicago  bank. 

Since  the  Fairthornes  had  left  town  Archer  had 
seen  nothing  of  Mary,  but  she  was  one  of  the  board 
of  ladies  who  visited  the  children 's  wards  of  the  hos- 
pital, and  this  and  other  matters  served  as  an  excuse 
for  writing  to  her.  He  felt,  too,  as  she  did,  that  in 
a  letter  she  got  nearer  to  him  than  she  ever  did  in 
personal  talk.  As  he  drove  about  he  read  her  reply 
to  a  letter  concerning  a  gift  of  books  for  the  chil- 
dren's ward  and  other  matters. 

"DEAR  DR.  ARCHER,  "  she  wrote,  "When  next  I  come  to 
town  I  will  ask  my  sister  to  help  me  select  the  books.  I  am 
most  glad  to  assist  you." 

Then  she  questioned  about  some  of  the  little  ones — 
whom  to  send  to  the  seashore  and  how  to  manage  it. 

26  401 


402  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"  You  say  that  you  are  not  always  happy— who  is!  But  your 
life  surely  ought  to  content  you.  It  is  so  full,  so  complete ;  I 
seem  to  lead  a  life  of  trifles.  I  read,  and  sew,  and  garden,  and 
ride.  My  duties  and  my  pleasant  hours  with  my  uncle  (for, 
despite  his  peculiarities,  they  were  often  pleasant)  are  over. 
My  cousin  has  become  irritable  and  dissatisfied.  If  I  were 
but  let  alone  I  might  endure  it,  but  Mrs.  H.  does  really  seem 
to  enjoy  the  game  of  opposing  me. 

"  The  garden  has  always  been  my  special  care.  This  woman 
cuts  my  flowers,  and  orders  what  changes  she  will.  Yesterday 
the  horse  we  use  in  the  dog-cart  was  lame.  She  drove  my 
saddle-horse.  We  had  some  sharp  words,  but  it  was  useless. 
Most  of  the  time  she  keeps  a  sort  of  guard  over  my  uncle,  who 
is,  at  times,  almost  childish. 

"  I  am  silly  to  pour  out  my  woes  to  you,  but "  (here  there 
was  a  careful  erasure)  "  one  must  talk.  When  a  child  is  hurt  it 
cries.  It  has  '  no  language  but  a  cry.'  When  grown-up  folks 
are  hurt,  they  talk  of  it.  It  seems  to  me  only  a  form  of  crying. 
I  ought  to  add  that  I  do  not  talk  much  of  my  moral  aches ;  to 
write  of  them  seems— well,  I  leave  to  your  charity  what  excuses 
you  choose  to  contribute. 

"It  cannot  last  long.  The  poor  old  gentleman  is  fast  fading. 
In  his  clearer  morning  hours  he  complains  about  Mr.  Pilgrim's 
delays.  I  wish  he  would  come  out  and  settle  the  matter.  Mr. 
Masters  w'as  here  to-day,  and  stirred  up  my  uncle,  thinking 
to  amuse  him. 

"  Dr.  Soper  says  he  is  getting  better ! 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"MARY  FAIRTHOKNE." 

Archer  read  this  letter  more  often  than  so  simple 
a  document  demanded,  and  at  last  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  reflecting  on  the  improbability  of  the  writ- 
er's ever  speaking  as  frankly  as  she  wrote.  It  had 
not  lessened  his  resolution  to  see  Mrs.  Hunter.  And 
yet  he  was  in  no  haste. 

The  mischief  for  Grace  had  begun,  and  probably 
no  new  demand  would  be  made,  at  least  not  until 


CIECUMSTANCE  403 

the  money  so  easily  won  was  spent.  He  was  very 
busy,  and  must  wait.  He  said  as  much  to  Blount, 
who  was  impatient  of  delay  and  wished  to  see  the 
matter  settled.  He  asked  for  Craig  at  Grace's 
office,  but  was  told  that  he  was  absent  and  had  writ- 
ten that  he  was  ill.  When  West,  who  disliked 
Lionel,  spoke  of  it  to  Grace,  and  of  the  utter  worth- 
lessness  of  the  man,  the  banker  said  he  would  go  to 
see  him.  This  he  was  sure  to  do  in  cases  of  sick- 
ness among  those  he  employed;  but  the  partner  was 
surprised  when  he  went  on  to  say  that  Craig  was 
young,  and  Mr.  Fairthorne  had  asked  of  him— Grace 
— not  to  be  hard  on  him.  It  was  unlike  his  senior, 
who  was  clearly  indisposed  to  be  severe  or  even  just 
in  a  matter  which  seemed  to  require  to  be  sharply 
dealt  with.  Grace  did  not  call  on  the  clerk.  He 
was  beginning  to  feel  what  a  fatal  noose  he  had 
cast  about  his  own  neck. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  day  on  Tuesday  Archer, 
afoot,  as  he  liked  to  be  in  the  afternoon,  was  busily 
reflecting  on  Mary  Fairthorne 's  annoyances,  and 
with  rather  natural  satisfaction  on  the  prospect  of 
paying  her  debt  in  kind. 

He  was  hailed  by  the  laughing  voice  of  Masters, 
who,  coming  out  of  the  club,  joined  him  on  Walnut 
Street. 

"Busy?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Wish  I  were.  May  is  a  bad  month.  Nothing 
to  kill  but  time.  In  June  I  am  off  to  the  Restigouche 
for  salmon.  I  think  this  week  of  trying  the  drum- 
fish  down  the  bay.  Halloa!  Here  's  the  big  chap- 
lain, Syd.  What  a  fine  cavalry  colonel  was  lost  in 


404  CIRCUMSTANCE 

him.  He  is  going  to  Swan  wick's.  He  's  like  a 
stray  dog — tries  everybody's  door-steps." 

"I  have  set  him  a  double  decalogue  of  things  not 
to  do.  He  is  unhappy." 

"So  am  I,  Sydney.  I  yearn  for  another  good, 
honest  war,  where  you  cannot  have  a  doubt  as  to 
which  side  to  take.  The  last  fellow  gets  me  on  the 
tariff  or  what  not." 

"It  was  as  you  say,  Tom;  for  my  part,  I  loathed 
it." 

"But  how  the  chaplain  liked  it  and  vowed  it  was 
horrible,  and  how  he  loved  the  battle-line.  He  's  a 
fine  fellow,  with  all  his  fal-lals." 

"He  had  them  then,  Tom.  Do  you  remember 
how  fussy  he  was  about  his  uniform?" 

"Indeed  I  do!"  They  joined  him  as  they  ap- 
proached the  steps  of  Swan  wick's  house. 

"Good  evening,  Tom.  No  one  is  ill,  I  hope, 
Archer?" 

"Oh,  some  small  malady.  Since  the  mamas  have 
begun  to  keep  thermometers  the  doctor  has  no  peace. 
How  are  you?" 

"So  well  that  I  am  ashamed  to  be  idle." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Masters,  slyly,  "the  exercise  of 
patience  may  absolve  from  that  charge." 

"That  does  n't  sound  like  your  wisdom,  Tom," 
said  the  big  man. 

"Well,  who  cares  where  the  guinea  was  coined? 
If  you  are  bored  for  a  time,  I  am  bored  indefinitely. 
Come  and  kill  drum  with  me,  and  fill  up  the  vac- 
uums between  your  ribs  with  soft-shelled  crabs  and 
sedge  oysters." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  406 

"No,  I  cannot." 

"Ah,"  said  Archer,  "don't  you  wickedly  yearn 
sometimes,  chaplain,  for  another  ride  down  the  val- 
ley with  Sheridan?" 
/    "Or  a  rally  on  the  firing-line?"  said  Tom. 

"Go  away,  little  Satan,"  laughed  the  chaplain, 
as  he  rang  the  bell,  and  they  went,  merrily  chaffing 
one  another,  into  Mrs.  Swan  wick's  parlor. 

"Mrs.  Swan  wick  would  like  Dr.  Archer  to  go  to 
the  nursery." 

"I  am  to  entertain  you,"  said  a  stout  lady,  who 
rose  as  the  servant  delivered  her  message. 

Masters  said: 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Cray  croft." 

The  rector  bowed  to  the  widow. 

Mrs.  Craycroft  is  of  small  moment  in  this  story, 
but  it  is  often  the  people  of  no  personal  importance 
who  bewilder  the  lives  of  men  or  women,  and  have 
at  times  simply  the  confusing  effect  of  displaced 
punctuation  marks.  She  had  a  wide  range  of  shal- 
low knowledge,  was  as  definite  as  a  dictionary,  and 
as  sure  of  her  facts  as  Tom  of  his  first  barrel  when 
his  hand  was  in  and  the  ducks  flying  low.  She  was 
an  uninventive  gossip,  and  simply  carried  to  and  fro 
her  freight  of  facts,  social  or  other. 

In  five  minutes  she  had  assured  Mr.  Knellwood 
that  he  wore  his  chasuble  wrong,  and  lectured  Tom, 
to  his  delight,  on  the  breed  of  Chesapeake  ducking 
dogs.  When,  by  and  by,  Archer  returned  with 
Margaret  Swanwick,  she  instructed  the  doctor  on 
the  condition  of  one  of  her  friends  then  under  his 
care  and  advised  a  change  of  treatment. 


406  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Archer  laughed  and  said  it  was  an  addition  to 
medicine. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "you  may  smile.  I  have  seen  it 
tried.  And,  dear,"  she  added  to  Margaret,  "don't 
let  them  over-ventilate  the  nursery.  The  doctors 
will  do  it." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Madge,  while  Knellwood 
and  Archer  exchanged  smiles,  and  Masters  content- 
edly listened. 

The  chat  soon  became  less  general,  and  the  widow 
grew  positive  as  to  a  variety  of  social  items,  and 
asked  Margaret  in  an  aside  if  Mr.  Pilgrim  were 
really  engaged  to  Mary  Fairthorne.  Margaret,  ac- 
customed to  a  curiosity  which  merely  collected  facts 
and  was  free  from  malice,  said : 

"No;  what  a  strange  report!  Don't  repeat  it, 
Sarah." 

"Certainly  not.  I  merely  ask  you.  I  never  re- 
peat things  unless  I  am  sure  of  their  truth.  Who 
is  Kitty's  last  victim?" 

"Herself,"  said  Margaret,  laughing.  "That  is  a 
constant  love  affair." 

After  other  talk  the  men  went  away,  and  Mrs. 
Craycroft  began  to  discuss  Mrs.  Hunter.  She  had 
been  out  to  lunch  with  Mary,  and  had  thought  Mary 
must  find  her  such  an  interesting  companion,  so  gay, 
so  clever.  It  was  well  Mr.  Fairthorne  was  not 
younger.  But  where  did  the  woman  come  from  ? 

Margaret  said  curtly  that  she  did  not  know,  and 
made  it  so  plain  that  Lucretia  was  not  a  person  she 
would  talk  about  that  Mrs.  Craycroft  retired  from 
the  subject,  saying: 


CIRCUMSTANCE  407 

"Well,  she  is  interesting  enough  to  make  one  curi- 
ous; but  then,  Margaret,  you  are  so  wanting  in 
curiosity. ' ' 

Madge  smiled. 

"Indeed,  I  am  often  curious  to  know  why  you  are 
curious. ' ' 

"Bless  me,  how  complicated!"  she  cried,  as  Miss 
Katherine  Morrow  entered.  Kitty  kissed  her  cousin 
on  both  cheeks,  asked  how  dear  Mrs.  Craycroft  was, 
adding,  "What  a  too  lovely  gown!"  and  "How  are 
the  dear  children,  Madge?"  She  was  inwardly  re- 
lieved to  hear  that  Jack  had  a  cold  and  Retta  was 
asleep.  The  maternal  instinct  slumbered  in  Kitty; 
children  bored  her.  If  ever  this  instinct  should 
awake  in  her  it  would  be  as  despotic  and  as  unrea- 
soning as  that  of  a  panther  for  her  young. 

Mrs.  Swanwick  soon  went  back  to  Jack,  leaving  the 
two  to  the  game  of  ' '  Have  you  heard  ? ' '  and  ' '  Do  you 
know?"  Kitty's  facts  were  not  accepted  without 
critical  examination.  Presently  the  widow  said: 

"You  missed  Father  Knell  wood.  He  looked  so 
well  and  so  handsome !  I  had  to  correct  him  about 
his  way  of  wearing  the  chasuble,  and,  really,  last 
Sunday  the  incense  was — oh,  it  smelled  atro- 
ciously ! ' ' 

Kitty,  a  little  confused,  said  something  incredibly 
silly  about  the  odor  of  sanctity,  which  made  the 
older  woman,  who  had  no  full-blown  sense  of  humor, 
stare  at  her  with  astonishment,  and  say:  "I  really 
do  not  quite  understand  you.  Do  you  know  that 
Father  Knellwood  is  going  to  Europe?  We  shall 
miss  him  sadly." 


408  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"To  Europe!"  gasped  Kitty.    "Who  told  you?" 

"I  overheard  him  say  he  thought  of  it,  and  that 
Dr.  Archer  said  he  ought  to  go.  Mr.  Masters  asked 
him  when  he  sailed.  I  hope  it  does  not  mean  Rome. 
He  is  certainly  going." 

Kitty  had  grown  white  to  the  lips.  As  the  widow 
spoke  she  saw  the  girl's  quivering  lip,  but  had  the 
good  sense  to  go  on  talking.  Kitty  caught  her 
breath  and  rallied,  as  she  said :  ' '  I  scarcely  think  it 
can  be  true." 

"Perhaps  not,"  returned  Mrs.  Craycroft,  "but  he 
is  thinking  of  it;  and  now  I  must  go,  dear.  Tell 
Margaret  I  could  not  wait."  She  had  ignorantly 
done  mischief. 

Kitty,  left  alone,  burst  into  tears.  She  had 
waited  with  her  little  traps  set,  and  circumstance 
had  not  been  her  friend.  Mrs.  Hunter  had  promised 
all  manner  of  things,  and  now— here  was  the  end ! 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  reconsidered  her  beliefs  about 
Knellwood.  She  had  reached  the  opinion  that  he 
did  not  now  care  enough  for  Kitty  to  break  through 
the  pale  of  denials  he  had  set  about  his  life.  At 
one  time  she  had  thought  otherwise,  but  there  was, 
even  for  Lucretia's  skepticism,  something  convincing 
in  the  man  and  his  ways.  She  had  for  a  time  gone 
regularly  to  St.  Agnes 's,  but  had  excused  herself 
from  church  work  on  various  pretenses.  More  re- 
cently, she  had  now  and  then  attended  some  short  ser- 
vice with  Kitty.  Her  own  church,  which  was  that 
of  Rome,  she  cared  as  little  about,  and  the  move  to 
Edgewood  agreeably  relieved  her  of  all  need  to 
keep  up  a  tiresome  pretense. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  409 

Knellwood  had  not  been  very  long  deceived  as  to 
Mrs.  Hunter's  religious  earnestness.  Despite  what 
Mary  Fairthorne  called  his  omnivorous  charity  of 
opinion,  he  had  begun  to  feel  that  there  was  some- 
thing untrustworthy  in  Lucretia.  He  could  not 
have  explained  what  was  more  a  feeling  than  a  con- 
viction ;  but  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman  are  some- 
times  wiser  than  his  intelligence.  Of  late  he  had 
heard  too  much  of  this  once  ardent  seeker  after 
truth  and  work. 

Lucretia  had  no  mind  that  Kitty  should  marry 
any  one.  For  a  time  this  longing  for  the  love  of 
a  man  who  was  apparently  not  of  the  world  of  those 
who  marry  had  seemed  to  her  useful,  but  a  wilder 
passion  than  she  had  it  in  her  nature  to  comprehend 
possessed  Katherine  Morrow  with  a  power  which 
swept  away  the  barriers  of  conventional  training. 

Margaret,  returning,  surprised  the  girl  in  an  at- 
tempt to  wipe  away  her  tears. 

"Why,  Kitty,"  she  said,  "what  is  the  matter, 
dear?" 

Kitty  looked  about  her  little  mind  for  a  plausible 
lie,  and  said : 

"Mrs.  Craycroft  abused  Lucretia." 

"Indeed,"  returned  Madge,  puzzled,  for  the  col- 
lector of  facts  never  abused  any  one.  "I  rather 
thought  she  liked  her." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Kitty,  decorating  her  invention; 
"she  said  she  came  from  no  one  knew  where.     She 
said— oh,  I  could  n't  stand  it!     You  all  hate  her." 
She  made  herself  angry  to  relieve  the  fury  of  an- ; 
other  passion. 


410  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  certainly  do  not  love  her,"  said  Madge;  "sup- 
pose we  drop  her.  Stay  and  dine;  we  can  wire 
Edgewood  and  Harry  will  take  you  to  the  nine 
train." 

"No,  I  must  go.  I  never  see  you  or  talk  to  Mary 
without  your  getting  on  to  this  subject  and  abusing 
a  woman  who — who  understands  me  as  you  have 
never  done." 

"But  it  was  you,  Kitty,  who  brought  up  this 
woman.  I  never  mention  her  to  you,  and  indeed  we 
never  see  you." 

"And  will  not  soon  again,  I  can  assure  you. 
Good  evening." 

This  was  rather  too  much  for  even  Madge's  well- 
trained  temper.  "You  are  both  incomprehensible 
and  ill  mannered.  Nothing  was  said  to  justify  such 
words  as  you  have  just  used.  I  shall  leave  you,  and 
I  advise  you  not  to  go  out  until  you  have  quieted 
down  a  little.  No;  I  will  not  listen  to  another 
word,"  and  with  this  the  little  mistress  of  the  house 
retired  to  the  nursery.  Kitty  sat  still  in  the  parlor. 
In  a  moment  Madge  was  forgotten,  and  her  eyes 
began  to  fill. 

Oh,  surely  this  man  must  love  her.  It  was  a  gift 
—this  bliss  of  love  which  she  had  never  before  had 
to  give.  Could  it  be  that  this  one  man  did  not  want 
it?  Or  was  it  really  his  principles  which  forbade 
avowal,  or— and  she  sat  up— was  he  fleeing  from  a 
temptation  he  dared  not  meet?  She  felt  that  only 
the  chance  of  an  hour  was  wanting;  how  happy  she 
could  make  him,  and  how  good  she  would  become 
if  he  were  but  hers.  As  she  sat  still  she  flushed, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  411 

her  mouth  grew  dry,  her  heart  beat  in  her  neck  and 
against  her  breast.  She  stood  up,  a  woman  in  the 
toils  of  passion— a  soul  astray  if  ever  there  were  one. 

"If  I  could  but  see  him!     Oh,  I  must— I  must!" 

For  good  or  ill  her  prayer  was  granted.  Cyril 
Knellwood  entered  the  room,  and  in  an  instant  knew 
his  peril.  He  made  haste  to  explain  his  return. 

' '  Is  Mrs.  Swanwick  in  ?  I  forgot  to  ask  her  some- 
thing. I  want  to  see  her.  I  came  to  ask  her  to 
receive  at  the  farm  school  a  little  scamp  who  can 
be  helped;  it  is  very  odd  how  one  forgets."  He 
talked  on,  speaking  fast.  Then  the  servant  came  in 
to  say  that  Mrs.  Swanwick  could  not  leave  the  chil- 
dren, and  must  be  excused. 

Knellwood  got  up.     "I  am  sorry.     I  must  go." 

"Just  a  moment,"  said  Kitty.  "You  need  not 
wait,"  this  last  to  the  servant. 

The  rector  felt  the  danger,  but  the  habit  of  cour- 
tesy forbade  his  insisting,  when  Kitty  added,  in  a 
voice  near  to  breaking:  "I  must  see  you  for— for 
a  moment." 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  and  sat  down,  laying  his 
hat  beside  him,  while,  with  a  hand  on  his  cross,  he 
waited. 

Kitty's  face  fell  for  an  instant,  and  then,  looking 
up  at  him,  she  said:  "Are  you  really  going  to 
Europe?" 

Up  to  this  time  his  voyage  had  been  in  doubt.  He 
made  an  instant  decision.  "Yes,  I  am  going;  and, 
pardon  me,  but  I  am  in  great  haste.  Good-bye." 

Then  Kitty  broke  down.  The  poor,  foolish  little 
beauty  had  always  had  her  way.  It  was  she  who 


412  CIRCUMSTANCE 

denied.  Now  she  caught  the  note  of  severe  formality 
in  his  voice  and  saw  his  face  set  sternly.  To  his 
horror,  she  exclaimed :  "You  cannot  go !"  and  caught 
his  hand,  looking  up  at  him,  as  he  stood  appalled 
at  her  outbreak.  She  went  on  wildly:  "You  are 
cruel !  Cruel !  You  have  made  me  love  you.  You 
have  ruined  my  life.  Pity  me !  You  cannot  go 
away  and  leave  me.  Say  you  will  not  go!  You 
know  I  love  you!"  She  lifted  up  her  charming, 
rosy  face,  raining  tears  on  his  hand.  He  was  speech- 
less before  this  wail  of  passion.  Drawing  back,  he 
said: 

"My  poor  child!  May  God  be  my  witness  that  I 
have  never  done  anything  to  make  you  care  for  me. 
Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing?" 

' '  I  don 't  care.     I  love  you ! ' ' 

"I  pray  you  not  to  say  this.  I  have  never — 
never — ' ' 

She  broke  in:  "Never — never?  You  asked  why  I 
did  not  any  longer  call  you  Father.  Oh,  what  did 
that  mean?  I  was  sure  it  meant—  Oh,  you  can't 
say  it  meant  nothing!" 

It  was  the  one  little  joint  in  his  armor.  She  had 
found  it.  He  was  too  honest  to  say  it  meant  noth- 
ing. It  was  not  quite  true  that  he  had  done  nothing 
to  betray  himself.  He  was  terribly  shaken,  and 
moved  away  as  he  said:  "Miss  Morrow,  this  must 
end— here  and  now.  You  are  a  young  girl.  You 
are  doing  a  wrong  and  an  imprudent  thing."  He 
looked  down  from  his  great  height  on  the  yellow 
hair,  the  face  of  pleading  passion.  His  eyes  filled. 
"I  am  pledged  to  Christ's  work,  and  to  it  alone.  I 
cannot  marry.  I  never  shall.  I  beg  of  you— " 


CIRCUMSTANCE  413 

' '  What  do  I  care ? "  she  broke  in.  "I  want  love- 
love.  You  have  cheated  me."  i 

The  rector  said  sternly : 

"I  must  go,  and  at  once.  Some  one  may  come 
at  any  moment.  I  beg  of  you  to  let  me  go.'*^ 

"Who  cares?"  she  cried.  In  her  madness  she 
stood  resolute  between  him  and  the  door. 

"Either,"  he  said,  "you  go  or  I  must  ring."  His 
voice  broke  with  the  vast  pity  he  felt  for  her,  the 
fear  he  had  of  himself,  and  it  was  very  great. 

She  passed  him  as  he  spoke,  and,  turning  in  the 
doorway,  cried :  "  I  hate  you !  I  wish  I  could  kill 
you!  You  have  broken  my  heart." 

She  would  never  in  all  her  life  know  how  measure- 
less was  the  temptation  to  the  man  who  stepped  by 
her,  saying:  "May  the  good  God  pity  and  help 
you,"  adding,  in  thought,  "and  me,  his  servant!" 

He  was  sinning  against  nature,  thinking  so  to  serve 
God,  and  nearly  lost  self-control.  To  say  "I  love 
you ' '  would  have  been  so  easy  and  so  true,  and,  alas ! 
so  delightful.  His  hand  clutched  the  gold  cross  till 
it  broke  in  his  grasp.  In  her,  love  had  turned  to 
anger  and  shame. 

She  ran  down  the  steps,  and  walked  swiftly  away ; 
while  he,  going  back  for  his  hat,  was  aware  of  the 
broken  cross  in  his  hand  and/me  torn  ribbon.  Once 
outside  he  walked  westward  in  the  darkening  twi- 
light, sternly  questioning  himself.  No !  His  con- 
science was  clear,  but  for  that  one  slip.  He  groaned. 
Had  he  shown  her  the  love  he  felt?  No,  never! 
Was  it  love — a  pure  and  honest  love  ?  And  how  had 
it  come  to  life ?  The  big  man  shuddered.  "Ah,"  he 
thought,  "how  near  damnation  lies.  And  how  piti- 


414  CIRCUMSTANCE 

able  it  was.  All  for  me  I— for  me—  Oh,  what  am 
I?  My  God,  what  am  I,  that  I  should  be  the  cause 
of  sin?" 

He  went  out  to  the  river,  and,  crossing  at  Market 
Street,  walked  fast  and  far  up  the  Lancaster  Pike. 
It  was  near  eleven  when  he  reached  Miss  Markham  's. 

He  let  himself  in  and  v.ent  up  to  Grace's  study, 
once  more  the  steady  master  of  himself.  There  and 
then  he  wrote  to  Archer  that  he  had  at  last  made  up 
his  mind  to  take  the  doctor's  advice  and  go  abroad. 
"I  find  that  I  can  readily  manage  to  get  three 
months  in  England.  Pardon  my  long  resistance; 
but  you,  who  are  so  good  to  all  men,  will  find  that 
easy." 

After  this  he  wrote  to  Grace,  and  then  went  to  his 
own  room.  When  he  spoke  of  his  plan  to  the  maiden 
ladies  they  were  troubled. 

"Why,  you  are  all  gone,  or  going.  Mr.  Grace, 
and  Mr.  Blount,  and  now  you, ' '  said  Clementina. 

"But  I  shall  be  with  you  in  the  fall,  and  Grace, 
too,  I  am  sure." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Clementina,  "perhaps." 

"There  is  no  perhaps  in  our  lives,  dear,"  said 
Letitia,  wearily.  "Everything  goes  wrong  at  last, 
no  matter  how  fine  it  all  seems  at  first." 

"That  is  not  like  you,  sister." 


XLI 

the  middle  of  this  week  Archer  wrote  to 
Mary  Fairthorne: 


"DEAR  Miss  MARY:  Thanks  in  advance  for 
the  books.  Let  them  be,  above  all,  picture 
books. 

"  Mr.  Knellwood  sails  week  after  next.  He  needs  it.  There 
are  who  say  Eome ;  I  know  better.  He  loathes  Luther  (fine 
alliteration,  that),  and  thinks  Cranmer  hardly  better,  grieving 
for  the  way  the  saints  with  queer  names  were  tumbled  out  of 
our  prayer-book.  But  he  thinks  there  was,  and  is,  a  Church, 
never  the  vassal  of  Eome,  and,  dear  old  chaplain,  what  kind 
of  church  he  would  evolve  if  there  were  no  bishop  in  the  back- 
ground, I  cannot  dream.  But  to  know  him  you  should  have 
seen  him  in  the  thick  of  it  on  Cemetery  Hill. 

"Mr.  Pilgrim  asks  me  to  say  to  your  uncle  that  he  will  come 
out  on  Saturday  morning  and  remain  until  Monday.  He  has 
all  the  maps  and  plans  ready,  but  both  he  and  Masters  advised 
that  no  mines  be  opened  until  the  branch  rail  gets  into  the 
valley.  Some  one  must  meet  Pilgrim  at  the  station,  10. 15  train, 
please. 

"  I  shall  go  out  to  Grace's  on  Saturday,  and  if  you  so  please, 
Mistress  Mary,  will  ride  with  you  on  that  afternoon.  I  may  re- 
main until  late  Sunday  evening.  I  will  call  for  you  at  Edge- 
wood  at  five. 

"  I  am  rather  tired  and  want  a  breath  of  country  air.    There 
are  days  when  everything  goes  awry.     This  has  been  one. 
"  Save  up  some  good  talk  for  me,  and  believe  me 
"Yours  truly, 

"SYDNEY  ARCHER." 
415 


416  CIRCUMSTANCE 

On  Thursday  he  made  his  daily  call  on  Pilgrim. 
The  engineer  was  fast  mending,  and  his  table  was 
strewn  with  letters  and  plans.  He  said:  "At  last, 
Sydney,  I  can  swing  dumb-bells  without  things 
creaking  inside  of  me.  I  suppose  this  apparently 
needless  business  means  something.  Lots  of  pain, 
weeks  of  loss  to  you  and  me.  But  what  it  means  I 
do  not  see.  I  am  no  wiser  and  no  better  for  that 
fellow's  bullet.  I  have  been  patient,  but  I  am  not 
more  so  than  I  was.  I  know  now  what  pain  is. 
That  was  a  new  experience." 

"Well,  is  not  that  a  gain?  It  was  for  me,  as  a 
physician.  All  doctors  ought  to  have  a  bout  of  sev- 
eral educational  diseases." 

"But  not  engineers,  if  you  please.  I  am  afraid 
that  I  shocked  Knellwood  yesterday.  I  asked  if  the 
Maker  of  the  world  could  have  felt  pain.  I  said  that 
logically  he  must  have  realized  it.  Knellwood  has  a 
very  direct  and  limited,  but  not  an  imaginative 
mind." 

"His  goodness  has  no  limitations,"  remarked 
Sydney.  '  *  What  did  he  say  ? ' ' 

"He  said,  with  curious  humility,  that  he  had  not 
t/  the  form  of  mind  to  grapple  with  such  questions, 
that  faith  was  his  form  of  reason.  I  was  tempted 
to  go  on,  for  that  did  seem  to  me  too  absurd,  but 
he  looked  so  like  a  big,  bothered  child  that  I  hesi- 
tated. Then  he  said,  'But  as  Christ  suffered,  and 
was  God,  we  must  feel  that  to  be  a  sufficient  answer. ' 
When  I  replied  that  from  his  point  of  view  it  was 
an  answer,  he  said,  in  his  courteous  way,  that  I  was 
nearly  as  bad  as  John  Fairthorne,  who  asked  him  if 


CIRCUMSTANCE  417 

the  Creator  chose  to  decree  that  He  should  not  have 
fore-knowledge  would  not  that  be  possible  for  om- 
nipotence." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Archer,  ''that  he  puzzled 
him.  I  have  long  ceased  to  reason  on  my  creed,  or 
to  enjoy  such  subtleties.  I  used  to  like  them.  As 
for  poor  old  Fairthorne,  he  is  past  all  such  games 
nowadays." 

"I  cannot  get  away  from  them,  Sydney.  I  have 
been  wrestling  in  the  twilight  of  recent  experience 
with  this  question  of  pain.  Nature  seems  to  me  to 
have  misused  her  wealth  of  opportunities." 

"Were  they  limitless?" 

"How  do  I  know?  Pain  is  for  the  most  part  need- 
less. You  once  told  me  of  a  man  who  could  not  feel 
pain.  What  an  example  for  nature ! ' ' 

"There  are  worse  things." 

"Yes,  that  I  know.  By  the  way,  Sydney,  as  I  am 
going  to  Edgewood,  what  kind  of  woman  is  that  sec- 
retary, Mrs.  Hunter?  Tom  Masters  spoke  of  her  as 
a  remarkable  woman,  very  handsome  and  clever." 

When  Pilgrim  thus  questioned  it  was  with  a  grow- 
ing doubt  in  his  mind.  Knellwood,  who  had  the 
reticence  of  a  too  lavish  charity,  had  been  so  over- 
careful  when  Pilgrim  spoke  of  her  as  to  arouse  his 
suspicions.  Now  the  engineer  was  resolutely  bent 
on  finding  out  whether  he  had  been  right  in  letting 
a  base  woman  work  her  will  on  a  broken  old  man. 

"By  this  time,  Luke,"  said  Archer,  "you  ought 
to  know  that  for  dear  old  Tom  all  petticoats  are  ob- 
jects of  worship.  He  knows  little  of  Mrs.  Hunter." 

"Do  you  know  more?" 
27 


418  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Yes,  too  much." 

Pilgrim  sat  up,  attentive. 

"I  have  reasons  for  asking  you,  Sydney.  Now, 
if  you  may,  tell  me  all  about  her. ' ' 

"I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not.  It  is  a  long 
story,  and  a  queer  one." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"An  unknown  woman  picks  up  Miss  Morrow's 
acquaintance,  obtains  absolute  control  over  her,  gets 
as  complete  possession  of  Fairthorne,  induces  him  to 
give  and  leave  her  money — a  good  deal,  too — breaks 
up  the  family,  sets  poor  Miss  Kitty  against  her 
cousins,  and  by  degrees  becomes  unquestioned  mis- 
tress. I  do  not  complain  that  she  drove  me  out,  but 
the  pleasure  the  woman  takes  in  inflicting  pain  is 
something  quite  amazing.  I  think  she  has  but  one 
affection.  It  is  for  a  girl-like,  pretty  young  fellow, 
her  brother— a  drunken,  dissolute  cub.  He  is  in 
Grace's  office." 

"A  pleasant  character,  Sydney.  And  what  of 
Miss  Fairthorne  in  this  cheerful  household?" 

"Read  that,"  said  Archer,  "and  you  will  see." 

He  gave  him  Mary  Fairthorne 's  letter,  hesitating 
a  moment  whether  to  read  him  parts  of  it  or  to  let 
him  see  it  as  a  whole. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  engineer.  He  read  the 
letter  with  care,  and,  slowly  refolding  it,  replaced  it 
in  the  envelope.  "Thank  you.  That  is  enough,  and 
too  much  !  Too  much  !  I  might  have  known  it." 

"May  I  ask  what  you  mean?" 

"Yes;  I  hate  it,  but  I  must  tell  you."  He  rose 
and  began  to  walk  about  the  room,  speaking  as  he 


CIRCUMSTANCE  419 

moved.  "I  suppose,  Sydney,  I  could  do  what  is  a 
duty  and  a  hard  one  without  explaining  myself  to 
you;  but  we  are  old  friends,  at  least  in  events  if 
not  in  years,  and,  above  all,  your  great  kindness  has 
brought  you  very  near  to  me.  And  yet,  in  our  many 
talks  I  have  never  spoken  freely  of  my  younger  life. 
Now  I  must  do  so,  much  as  it  hurts  me.  I  am  sud- 
denly set  face  to  face  with  a  painful  duty,  or  what  ^" 
looks  like  a  duty.  Some  one  should  know  why  I 
act,  in  case  at  any  future  time  there  arise  questions. 
Then,  too,  I  want  a  man  of  honor  to  say  I  am  right, 
for,  believe  me,  Archer,  it  has  not  been  easy  to  feel 
sure.  Now,  listen  to  me."  He  paused  in  his  walk. 
"This  woman,  Sydney,  is — I  mean  was — oh,  damn  , 
the  thing !  She  was  my  wife ! ' ' 

''Your  wife!  Your  wife!"  exclaimed  Archer. 
He  was  without  more  adequate  reply  than  an  excla- 
mation. It  seemed  incredible. 

"This,  Sydney,  of  course  is  a  surprise  to  you. 
You  know  my  temperament.  You  know  me  through 
and  through.  I  am  a  sensitive  man.  Even  the  care- 
less words  of  people  I  love  sometimes  hurt  me  in  a 
way  that  to  them  would  seem  absurd.  Imagine, 
now,  what  a  hell  of  memories  I  have  carried  with  me 
for  these  last  eight  years." 

' '  I  see, ' '  said  Archer.  ' '  Having  known  her,  I  can 
understand.  If  this  be  hard  for  you  to  speak  of, 
why  go  on?  It  is  sad  enough  for  me,  who  am  your 
friend.  That  woman  must  have  left  behind  her  a 
trail  of  misery  for  many.  What  a  devil ! ' ' 

"Stop,  Sydney!  Please  don't.  I  would  rather 
not  hear  even  you  abuse  her."  This  remnant  of 


420  CIRCUMSTANCE 

protective  tenderness  seemed  to  Archer  pitiable. 
The  speaker  went  on:  ''Do  not  mistake  me.  It  is 
not  love.  That  is  as  dead  as  the  years  that  knew  it. 
I  said  why  I  must  talk  it  all  out.  Now,  please,  not  a 
word  until  I  have  done." 

"Go  on,  Luke." 

"When  I  was  just  twenty- two,  and  not  very 
strong,  my  uncle  sent  me  to  California  with  John 
Percy,  the  mining  engineer.  It  was  supposed  that 
I  should  inherit  my  uncle's  estate,  as  I  was  his  near- 
est relative  and  had  lived  with  him  since  I  became 
an  orphan.  We  stayed  some  time  at  Sacramento, 
where  I  fell  in  with  a  school-teacher,  Inez  Quinones, 
the  child,  as  she  told  me,  of  a  Spanish  ranchman, 
as  to  whom  there  was  a  neatly  fabricated  story  of 
ruin  and  poverty  and  womanly  effort  on  her  part 
to  help  herself  and  a  half  brother,  the  only  child  of 
a  second  marriage.  Percy,  finding  me  troubled 
with  a  cough,  left  me  in  Sacramento  while  he  in- 
spected certain  mines.  To  cut  it  short,  I  had  a  sun- 
stroke, and  then  meningitis.  When  I  became  enough 
myself  to  understand  things,  I  found  that  Inez,  who 
lived  in  the  same  hotel  with  me,  had  been  practically 
my  only  nurse.  The  doctor,  whom  she  had  charmed, 
thought  that  she  had  been  of  inestimable  service. 
It  was  true.  When  I  was  able  to  sit  up  she  was  in 
and  out,  after  school  hours,  reading  to  me,  singing, 
bringing  me  flowers,  writing  my  letters. 

"At  last,  one  day  she  burst  into  tears.  People 
were  talking;  she  would  lose  her  place.  Two  or 
three  days  finished  the  matter.  She  was  a  perfect 
actress,  and  much  older  than  I.  It  was  simple 
enough — I  had  an  ample  allowance;  my  uncle  was  a 


CIECUMSTANCE  421 

well-known  mine  owner.  I  was  sensitive,  weak  from 
illness,  not  even  quite  clear  in  my  head.  I  was  told 
that  she  had  ruined  her  chances  of  self-support  for 
my  sake,  had  neglected  her  duties  for  me.  She 
showed  me,  at  last,  her  letter  of  dismissal  received 
from  the  school  board.  It  was  forged,  as  I  knew 
long  after. 

' '  Of  course,  I  married  her.  A  week  later  my  uncle 
arrived.  He  saw  her,  went  coolly  into  her  story, 
asked  me  to  give  her  up,  and  when  I  would  not  con- 
sider it  in  any  shape  left  me  to  fight  the  world  alone 
with  her,  and  without  a  penny. 

"Well,  I  won't  trouble  you  with  my  struggles. 
It  was  hard,  and  harder  as  I  learned  to  know  her. 
Two  years  passed.  I  acquired  some  practical  know- 
ledge of  mines  and  mining.  About  this  time  I 
bought  on  credit  a  small  share  of  the  Centre  mine. 
I  went  to  see  it  for  the  larger  owners,  who  paid  me 
in  this  way.  On  my  return  to  Sacramento  I  found 
that  she  had  left  me  without  a  line  or  a  word  of  ex- 
planation. I  was  then  about  twenty-four.  It  was 
for  her  a  question  of  luxury  or  of  honestly  borne 
hardship.  She  fled  a  day  too  soon.  I  was  at  ease 
so  far  as  money  went,  as  the  mine  proved  to  be  valu- 
able. I  do  not  mean  that  I  was  rich,  but  I  had 
enough.  She  had  gone  to  the  Sandwich  Islands  with 
an  Irish  mine  owner,  a  rich,  coarse,  decrepit  old  man. 
There  was  no  passion  in  it.  She  had  always  been  a 
cold-blooded  woman,  with  capacity  to  act  the  passion 
she  never  felt— a  woman  who  loved  a  highly  seasoned 
life.  I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  suffered  before  and 
after  this  flight.  The  man  got  tired  and  dropped 
her. 


422  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Then,  where  she  went  or  what  she  did  I  do  not 
know,  until  she  obtained  a  divorce  on  the  ground  of 
desertion.  I  did  not  resist.  Meanwhile,  I  did  what 
may  seem  even  to  you  quixotic.  I  wrote  to  her  that 
I  would  not  leave  her  to  the  temptation  of  sin  be- 
cause of  want  of  means;  that  I  would  make  her  an 
allowance  of  eight  hundred  dollars  a  year.  She  re- 
plied, calmly,  that  it  was  very  proper.  From  that 
day  to  this  she  has  had  it.  At  times  I  lived  scantily 
to  save  enough ;  one  year  I  borrowed  it. 

"I  know  little  of  her  life,  except  that  she  has 
twice  broken  up  families,  and  has  always  been  gifted 
with  this  power  to  win  young  women.  I  have  rea- 
sons to  believe  that  when  the  Irish  mine  owner 
got  rid  of  her  he  gave  her  money— a  good  deal. 
She  has  changed  her  name,  as  you  know,  and  has 
in  some  mysterious  way  been  able  to  go  to  Europe 
or  frequent  our  own  summer  resorts.  Once,  she 
went  abroad  as  a  teacher  with  some  Canadian  girls. 
You  know  how  really  accomplished  she  is.  I  am 
sure  that  she  is  unscrupulous,  but  how  criminal  or 
how  far  really  dangerous  I  do  not  know.  That  is 
my  story  and  hers,  and  now  what  am  I  to  do?  If 
she  were  not  in  the  midst  of  my  friends,  if— well,  I 
would  let  her  alone.  I  ought  to  say  that  on  my 
first  visit  here  she  left  town,  I  suppose  to  avoid 
me.  Now  she  is  afraid  to  abandon  her  prey,  is  com- 
fortable in  a  life  of  ease  and  even  of  luxury,  and  no 
doubt  making  money.  She  had  to  face  me  this  time 
and  either  defy  or  cajole  me.  She  acted  with  her 
usual  skill  and  courage,  and  came  to  see  me." 

' '  Came  to  see  you  ? ' '  repeated  Archer. 


CIECUMSTANCE  423 

"Yes,  to  plead  that  I  would  not  betray  her. 
Really,  it  was  well  done,  wonderfully  well.  I  made 
no  promises.  How  could  I?  Now  I  know  more. 
How,  after  that  letter,  can  I  hesitate  ?  Now,  Sydney, 
what  must  I  do  ? " 

"A  word  or  two  before  I  reply.  Of  course,  her 
story  was  not  true." 

' '  No ;  she  was  the  child  of  a  Mexican  picador  who 
had  saved  money.  He  came  to  San  Francisco,  spec- 
ulated, and  died  poor.  The  stepmother  also  died. 
The  girl,  then  quite  young,  was  admirably  educated 
in  a  convent  school  of  French  ladies  of  the  Sacred 
Heart.  The  boy,  a  baby,  was  put  in  an  orphan  asy- 
lum. When  about  eighteen  she  ran  away  and  got  a 
place  as  a  teacher.  About  the  boy  I  know  little, 
but  she  certainly  did  take  care  of  him  later,  and  he 
is  the  one  person  she  really  ever  cared  for — why,  I 
do  not  know.  And  now  do  not  ask  any  more,  and 
again  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"You  have  no  choice.  You  must  tell  your  story 
to  Mr.  Fairthorne." 

"Would  it  answer?  Is  he  in  a  fit  state  to  under- 
stand its  force  and  me?" 

"Perhaps  not.  How  would  it  do  to  threaten  her 
that  you  will  tell  it?  Fairthorne  is  breaking  up. 
His  family  will  be  justified  in  acting  despotically. 
She  might  fight,  but  how  could  she?  I  have  myself 
a  matter  to  settle  with  her  brother  which  will  drive 
him  away  and  perhaps  help  to  make  her  feel  willing 
to  go.  I  think  she  will  make  some  conditions  and 
give  up." 

"But  if  John  Fairthorne  is  as  you  say,  why  not 


424  CIRCUMSTANCE 

wait?  He  will  die,  and  that  will  end  it."  Pilgrim 
was  elearly  trying  to  find  some  mode  of  escape  from 
an  unpleasant  situation ;  it  was  natural  enough. 

"I  will  tell  you  why;  the  old  man  is  slowly  fail- 
ing, but  he  still  has,  as  I  have  seen  in  these  cases  of 
senile  decay,  his  hours  of  clearness  of  head.  He 
may  again  change  his  will,  and  so  change  it  as 
seriously  to  affect  his  heirs  and  make  a  contest  neces- 
sary after  his  death.  I  fear  this  woman ;  and,  after 
all,  Fairthorne  may  live  for  months.  Harry  Swan- 
wick  is  unwilling,  perhaps  wisely,  to  move  in  the 
matter.  Meanwhile,  Miss  Fairthorne  is  and  will  be 
kept  wretchedly  unhappy." 

"I  see.  I  must  do  something.  I  go  out  to  Edge- 
wood  on  Saturday  early.  I  shall  have  an  hour  or 
two  with  Fairthorne,  and  between  that  and  Monday 
find  my  chance  to  talk  with — with  Mrs.  Hunter." 

"I  shall  be  at  Grace's,  Luke." 

"Thank  you;  and  now,  as  I  am  rather  used  up,  I 
will  let  you  go.  Good-bye.  It  is  a  relief  to  feel 
that  I  can  deal  with  the  matter  without  having  it 
known  to  any  one  but  you  and  her.  She  will  show 
fight,  and  I  dread  it.  Good-bye." 

When  alone  Pilgrim  threw  himself  on  the  lounge. 
"If,"  he  thought,  "the  old  cynic  had  been  the  only 
one  concerned  I  might  have  let  things  go  their  way, 
or  hers ;  but  Mary !  No ! ' '  He  thought  of  the  time 
when,  years  before,  he  had  come  to  know  clearly  that 
he  loved  her.  That  his  chance  was  worth  something 
he  had  begun  to  see.  He  had  said  then,  "I  must 
not  wait.  She  must  know  in  time. ' '  He  had  frankly 
said  that  he  loved  her,  that  he  had  hoped  she,  too, 


CIRCUMSTANCE  425 

would  some  day  care  for  him,  but  that,  as  an  honest 
gentleman,  he  was  bound  to  tell  her  that  he  had 
been  divorced,  and  that  his  wife  was  alive.  Then 
he  had  very  plainly  told  the  sad  story  of  his  young 
life. 

She  had  replied  that  whether  or  not  she  cared 
enough  for  a  man  to  be  willing  to  marry  him  his 
divorce  would  be  an  insurmountable  objection.  Yes,  ^X 
she  knew  him  blameless,  but  this  she  never  could 
face.  It  was  a  matter  of  sentiment  rather  than  of 
principle. 

He,  too,  had  the  sad  conviction,  being  as  sensitive 
as  she,  that  to  marry  a  divorced  woman  with  a  hus- 
band alive  would  have  been  as  horrible  to  him.     He        -^ 
accepted  his  defeat,  and,  remaining  something  more   ^ 
than  friend,  went  his  manly  way  through  a  lonely 
life  of  distinction  and  usefulness. 

Mary's  letter  to  Archer  had  made  up  his  mind  for 
him.  She  should  suffer  no  longer. 

' '  Dear  old  Syd !  Did  he  know  that  I  could  read 
between  the  lines  of  that  letter?  Ah,  me,  but  life 
is  hard ! ' ' 


XLII 

1LGRIM  had  never  been  to  Edgewood, 
and  was  delighted  with  the  colonial 
home,  with  its  vine-clad  outbuildings, 
much  like  those  of  the  too  famous  house 
in  Fainnount  Park  to  which  Arnold 
took  his  bride  in  days  gone  by. 

Mary  Fairthorne  met  him  at  the  door. 
"You  are  most  welcome.  Yes,  my  uncle  is  pretty 
well,  and  blissfully  happy  over  some  autograph  let- 
ters of  Gray  to  Mason.  A  new  autograph  always 
arouses  him.  Come  up.  He  wished  to  see  you  at 
once. ' ' 

Fairthorne  had  become  thin,  and  too  shrunken  for 
his  clothes,  but  the  outline  of  his  handsome  features 
came  out  even  the  more  distinctly  for  his  loss  of 
flesh. 

"Call  Mrs.  Hunter,  Mary,"  he  said.  "Glad  to 
see  you,  Pilgrim.  Lucretia  knows  all  about  these 
lands.  I  want  you  to  know  her — remarkable 
woman!" 

"Mrs.  Hunter  is  out,  uncle." 
"Well,  find  her;  send  some  one.     I  want  you  to 
know  her,  Pilgrim." 

She  was  not  to  be  found.     Fairthorne  grumbled, 
and  then  began  to  look  over  the  engineer's  maps, 
426 


CIRCUMSTANCE  427 

while  Pilgrim  talked.  Soon  he  failed  to  attend,  and, 
falling  asleep,  woke  up  as  the  voice  of  Pilgrim  ceased 
to  explain.  At  last  he  said: 

''That  will  do.  We  need  Lucretia.  We  will  look 
at  these  things  again.  Show  Mr.  Pilgrim  the  gar- 
den, Mary." 

Luke  lunched  with  Mary  Fairthorne,  and  after- 
ward wandered  off  alone  for  a  walk  over  the  rolling 
hills  of  Delaware  County.  Mrs.  Hunter  had  a  head- 
ache, and  did  not  appear  all  day.  Archer  rode  over 
from  Grace's  farm,  and  then  through  the  May  after- 
noon with  Miss  Fairthorne,  a  happy  man. 

"Care  leaves  one  on  a  good  horse,"  he  said,  as 
they  crossed  the  bridge  over  Cobb's  Creek.  "I  hope 
it  is  as  good  a  remedy  for  you." 

"My  cares  are  less  easily  dismissed,"  she  returned. 
"I  have  made  up  my  mind  this  last  week  to  go  to 
Long  Branch.  Mrs.  Craycroft  has  taken  rooms  for 
me.  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer. ' ' 

He  hesitated  as  they  rode  on. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  Miss  Mary,  but  will  you 
leave  your  uncle  alone  with  this  woman?" 

"He  is  that  now.  I  am  a  cipher,  outside  of  his 
life." 

"Will  you  trust  me  a  little?" 

"We  have  always  trusted  you." 

"Not  we — you,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  do.    What  is  it?" 

"Do  not  leave  him." 

"I  must.    You  do  not  know  what  you  ask. " 

"No."  He  leaned  over  and  touched  her  hand. 
"I  ask  you  not  to  leave  him,  not  now— wait." 


428  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"You  are  very  mysterious." 

' '  Perhaps ;  but  once  you  asked  me  not  to  give  him 
up.  I  obeyed  you.  There  is  nothing  you  can  ask 
that  I  would  not  do.  Do  not  question  me,  but 
silently  trust  me  when  I,  in  turn,  say  do  not  go 
away. ' ' 

"I  will  do  as  you  say  because— well,  because  I 
trust  you." 

"Could  you  not  trust  me  always— for  life,  Mary 
Fairthorne?" 

"That  is  rather  long,"  she  said,  laughing.  "The 
spring  is  a  time  of  promises.  The  summer  might 
find  me  changed. ' ' 

"But  not  the  winter,"  he  said. 

"I  do  not  know.  Give  my  mare  a  lead  over  that 
hedge.  Thanks ! ' '  she  cried,  as  they  galloped  over 
the  turf  of  the  old  meadow-lands.  She  kept  him  off 
the  perilous  subject,  and  they  rode  in  at  evening  past 
the  gray  stone  church  of  St.  David. 

"See  there,"  she  said,  stopping  her  horse.  "Yon- 
der lies  Anthony  Wayne.  The  little  church  is  curi- 
ous. You  enter  the  organ-loft  by  a  stone  stair  from 
the  outside.  We  shall  go  there  to-morrow  morning; 
I  play  the  organ.  The  place  will  interest  you.  It 
is  strange  that  you  have  never  seen  it." 

"No;  I  have  made  visits  of  an  hour  to  your  uncle, 
and  back  to  town  in  haste.  Miss  Mary,  I  want  to 
have  a  talk  alone  with  that  woman — with  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter. How  can  I  manage  it?" 

"She  is  apt  to  breakfast  in  her  own  room,  and 
then  to  smoke  horrid  cigarettes,  now  that  she  is  care- 
less as  to  what  she  does.  About  ten  she  joins  my 
uncle.  On  Sunday  she  is  later." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  429 

"If,  then,  Pilgrim  and  you  and  I  walk  to  church, 
and  I  leave  you  and  return  I  may  catch  her?" 

"Yes,  very  likely;  but  I  want  you  to  see  the 
church.  It  is  well  worth  a  visit.  Why  not  see  her 
in  the  afternoon?" 

"She  will  hide  or  get  out  of  the  way." 

"That  is  not  her  custom." 

"It  will  be  what  she  will  do." 

"You  are  very  mysterious  again.  What  is  going 
to  happen  ?  Oh,  if  it  should  be  anything  to  get  rid 
of  her  I  would—" 

"Well?" 

"Be  so  glad,"  said  the  girl. 

"Then  wait." 

"On  Sunday  afternoon  she  takes  a  long  walk,  al- 
ways alone." 

"I  shall  see  her  in  the  morning.  In  the  afternoon 
we  will  look  at  the  church.  And  now  for  a  good 
gallop." 

At  dinner  Mrs.  Hunter  was  still  absent  and  suf- 
fering.  In  the  late  evening  Pilgrim  learned  from 
Archer  how  the  day  was  usually  spent  by  Lucretia. 

"If  she  stays  up-stairs, "  he  said,  "I  shall  remain 
here  until  I  get  my  chance,  if  it  take  a  week." 

After  breakfast  on  this  Sunday,  Mary  sent  up  to 
ask  if  Mrs.  Hunter  were  well  enough  to  be  with  Mr. 
Fairthorne,  as  they  were  all  going  to  church.  Mrs. 
Hunter  still  had  neuralgia,  but  as  every  one  else  was 
to  be  out  she  would,  of  course,  make  the  effort  and 
sit  with  Mr.  Fairthorne.  Mary  handed  the  note  to 
Archer. 

He  left  Pilgrim  and  Mary  on  the  hill  above  St. 
David's,  went  back  to  the  house  and  at  once  up  to 


430  CIRCUMSTANCE 

the  library.  Mrs.  Hunter  was  reading  aloud  the 
life  of  Alexander  Hamilton.  She  read  well. 

"Ah!"  said  Archer.     "Glad  to  see  you  up." 

She  rose  as  he  entered.  She  was  watchful,  and 
evidently  uneasy  at  his  return. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  few  minutes?"  he  said,  in  a 
low  tone. 

' '  I  cannot  leave  Mr.  Fairthorne. ' ' 

"You  must,  or  you  will  regret  it,  for  your  bro- 
ther's sake." 

She  made  an  excuse  and  went  after  him,  saying 
she  would  soon  return. 

"Where  can  we  talk?"  he  said. 

"In  my  sitting-room."  He  followed  her.  "Will 
you  have  a  cigarette  ? ' '  she  asked,  coolly. 

"No.     Sit  down." 

' '  You  said  my  brother  Lionel.  What  is  it  ? "  She 
spoke  very  quickly,  and  fairly  concealed  her  anx- 
iety. 

"Mrs.  Hunter,  your  brother  told  you  that  he  had 
seen  Mr.  Grace  at  Carlisle  intoxicated.  You  told 
him  to  hold  his  tongue  about  it.  He  did  not.  He 
wrote  Mr.  Grace  an  anonymous  threat  of  exposure. 
It  was  madness  to  try  this  with  him,  of  all  men.  In 
reply  Grace  sent  a  check  to  order  in  a  letter.  Your 
brother  is  known  to  have  taken  it  out  of  the  office 
and  drawn  it.  This  is  blackmail,  and  means,  if  a 
warrant  be  served,  the  penitentiary.  Mr.  Grace  is  a 
merciful  man.  To  arrest  and  try  Mr.  Craig  would 
ruin  him  forever."  Here  he  stopped. 

"Why  did  he  not  come  himself?"  She  was  sus- 
picious. "Did  he  send  you?" 


CIRCUMSTANCE  431 

"Mrs.  Hunter,  I  did  not  come  here  to  be  ques- 
tioned. If  by  Tuesday  next  that  money  is  not  re- 
turned and  your  brother  has  not  written  to  confess 
that  he  had  tried  to  blackmail,  the  question  of  more 
kindly  dealing  with  a  weak  young  man  may  be  closed. 
If  you  are  wise  you  will  oblige  him  to  do  what  I  have 
suggested."  He  meant,  if  he  failed,  to  go  boldly 
to  Grace  and  insist  that  he  face  a  matter  already 
known  to  four  people,  and  perhaps  to  many.  Lu- 
cretia  met  this  attack  with  her  usual  courage. 

"Will  you  swear,"  she  said,  "that  this  story  is 
true?" 

"No;  I  have  said  it  was  true.  Accept  it  or  not, 
I  have  done. ' ' 

"Why  did  you  or  Mr.  Grace  not  go  directly  to  my 
brother  about  it?" 

"Go  to  a  drunken,  conceited  fool — a  man  not  to 
be  trusted  for  a  day?  No.  That  would  be  folly." 

Then  the  woman  broke  down.  She  put  her  head 
in  her  hands,  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  cried.  She 
cared  nothing  for  the  sin  and  little  for  the  shame  of 
it.  Neither,  as  such,  disturbed  her.  She  could  have 
done,  at  need,  worse  things  and  felt  no  qualm,  but 
through  much  of  her  life  she  had  been  struggling 
to  keep  this  weakling  straight,  proud  of  his  doll- 
like  beauty,  hoping  always  that  he  was  about  to  be 
what  he  never  could  be.  Was  it  love,  or  pride,  or 
the  fact  of  his  long  dependence  upon  her  that  made 
his  life  and  acts  so  bitter  ? 

A  few  moments  went  by  in  silence.  She  looked 
up,  saying: 

"  I  am  beaten.     You  have  your  revenge. ' '  S 


432  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"It  is  not  revenge.  I  suppose  that  were  I  to 
tell  you  I  am  sorry  for  you" — and  he  was  sorry— 
"you  would  not  believe  me." 

"I  would  not,  I  do  not,  and  I  do  not  care.  There 
is  something  in  it  not  clear  to  me.  The  only  thing 
I  do  believe  is  that  you  could  not  find  him,  and  so 
fall  back  on  me." 

"You  are  not  as  shrewd  as  usual,  Mrs.  Hunter.  I 
give  you  my  word  that  no  effort  will  be  made  to  fol- 
low or  to  trap  him  if  that  confession  be  written 
promptly  and  the  money  returned." 

"You  shall  have  both.  I  said  I  was  beaten.  I 
am,  but  I  promise  you  not  to  forget,  and  if  I  can 
ever  repay  you  it  shall  be  done,  and  with  interest." 

"Thank  you.  Kindly  send  the  letter  to  me,  South 
Thirteenth  Street,  you  know  the  address."  With 
these  words  he  rose  and  left  her. 

She  closed  the  door,  and  sat  at  the  open  window, 
deep  in  thought.  It  was  a  terrible  reckoning. 

"They  do  not  want  this  to  get  out,  but  that 
does  n't  help  matters.  As  between  being  bled  for 
years  or  having  a  paragraph  in  some  blackguard 
paper,  they  will  choose  the  last,  of  course.  Any 
one  would.  Should  I  care  if  some  one  said  I  took 
too  much  champagne?  Lionel  must  go,  Heaven 
knows  where!  He  can't  fight  Roger  Grace.  Oh, 
what  an  idiot,  to  be  trapped  like  this!  Why 
could  n't  he  have  waited  a  few  months?  I  could 
have  gotten  anything  out  of  John  Pairthorne,  but 
if —if  they  use  this  letter  I  am  lost.  I  never  thought 
of  that.  Why  does  n't  this  tiresome  old  man  step 
out?  Lord!  That  would  make  my  money  pretty 


CIRCUMSTANCE  433 

certain,  and  mourning  is  so  becoming  to  me.  Ah. 
my  brother !  I  have  too  many  things  to  think  about. 
If  it  were  only  one  at  a  time,  but  Luke — Luke.  He 
goes  to-morrow.  Well,  well,  that  will  be  one  relief ! 
He  is  very  handsome,  but  about  as  great  a  fool  as 
ever,  and  as  shy  of  me  as  I  am  of  him. ' ' 

As  usual,  her  meditations  ended  in  some  practical 
way.  It  was  Sunday.  She  would  take  her  usual 
afternoon  walk,  for  nothing  was  allowed  to  interfere 
with  the  exercise  by  which  she  kept  a  very  sound 
body  in  perfect  health.  Just  before  dinner  she 
would  go  to  the  city,  and  thus  escape  meeting  Pil- 
grim. She  must  see  her  brother  at  once,  and  must 
feel  secure  about  him,  for  now  it  seemed  clear  to 
her  that  if  this  blackmail  matter  should  become  pub- 
lic, and  Lionel  be  arrested  and  tried,  her  own  posi- 
tion would  be  untenable.  Yet,  to  be  just  to  a  self- 
ful  character,  less  purely  personal  motives  were 
uppermost  in  her  mind,  and  she  had  no  scheme  of  an 
unfettered  life  which  did  not  involve  the  dream  of 
more  respectability  for  Lionel  than  was  compatible 
with  her  own  ideal  of  an  existence  away  from  these 
sedate,  reputable  people,  with  their  unquestioning 
beliefs  in  themselves  and  their  ancestors,  of  whom 
they  said  nothing  and  thought  much. 

For  once  Kitty  had  hidden  her  doings,  and  the 
day  after  her  confession  to  Knellwood  had  decided 
to  spend  a  few  days  at  Chestnut  Hill  with  one  of 
the  many  young  women  she  labeled  ' '  friend. ' '  Her 
discontent,  her  recoil  into  shame,  her  general  dis- 
satisfaction with  what  she  called  life  were  all  help- 
ful to  Mrs.  Hunter's  schemes.  But  of  late  this  stage 


434  CIRCUMSTANCE 

manager  had  been  too  anxious  to  attend  with  equal 
care  to  all  her  puppets.  Just  now  the  showman 
Fate  was  relentlessly  pulling  the  wires,  and  she,  too, 
must  dance,  whether  she  would  or  not. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  had  a  bank  account  which 
would  have  surprised  the  heirs  of  John  Fairthorne. 
Even  in  her  present  anxiety  she  smiled  to  think  of 
it.  If  only  she  were  secure  of  that  codicil!  Then 
there  would  be  Paris  and  the  slack  society  of  the 
Riviera,  or  later  Cairo  and  all  manner  of  agreeable 
chances,  other  preserves  and  other  game,  with 
Kitty's  income  to  pay  the  bills,  for  in  a  year  or 
less  she  would  have  control  of  the  well-managed 
accumulations  of  a  long  minority. 

Lucretia's  power  to  set  aside  care  was  remarkable ; 
her  belief  in  her  resources  self-satisfying.  Twice  on 
this  Sunday  morning  she  had  been  summoned  to 
Mr.  Fairthorne,  and  had  allowed  him  to  await  her 
pleasure.  At  last  she  went  down-stairs,  fanning 
herself  and  humming  a  Spanish  song.  The  day  was 
warm  and  the  atmosphere  heavy.  Mr.  Fairthorne 
gave  up  his  intention  to  lunch  with  his  guests,  and 
insisted,  to  the  secretary's  satisfaction,  that  she 
should  share  his  meal  in  the  library.  There  were 
others  as  well  pleased. 

Lucretia  was  never  more  agreeable.  She  talked 
of  Mexico  and  bull-fights,  told  the  old  man  gay  stories, 
and,  alas !  it  was  the  Sabbath  or  she  could  sing  for 
him,  but  "Oh!"  she  gaily  pointed  down-stairs,  "I 
should — oh,  I  should  be  socially  excommunicated!" 
Some  day  when  they  were  alone  she  would  dance, 
just  a  little,  a  sketch  of  the  real  dance.  He  was  de- 
lighted and  cheerful. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  435 

After  the  luncheon  they  went  out  on  the  wide 
upper  porch.  She  arranged  his  reclining  chair  and 
cushions  with  a  display  of  tender  care. 

"Sing  for  me,"  he  said. 

' '  Oh,  no !  Not  now,  sir. ' '  She  heard  the  broken 
hum  of  voices  on  the  veranda  below  them. 

"Sing,"  he  said,  "don't  you  hear  me?"  He  was 
like  a  spoiled  child. 

"I  cannot,  Mr.  Fairthorne.  Indeed,  I  cannot.  I 
never  should  hear  the  last  of  it." 

"What  is  that  to  me?  Do  as  I  tell  you.  You  have 
talked  of  this  sort  of  thing  so  long  that  I  am 
curious." 

Lucretia  stood  up,  a  queer  gleam  in  her  eyes,  a 
sense  of  joy  at  the  freedom  of  an  open  door  of  reck- 
less self-abandonment.  As  she  would  have  said  in 
other  company,  she  let  herself  go.  ' '  Oh,  you  naughty 
man!"  she  cried,  smiling,  and,  curtsying  low,  fell 
back  a  little  and  began  to  dance  with  slow  move- 
ments and  sway  of  body  eminently  graceful.  Then 
she  began  to  snap  her  fingers,  and,  in  a  low  voice, 
to  sing  a  love  song  of  the  muleteers  of  the  Sierras. 

By  degrees,  enjoying  the  performance,  she  was 
swept  away  on  the  current  of  her  mood.  The  cas- 
tanets rang  out,  the  dance  movement  grew  quicker, 
with  growing  pleasure  she  gave  way  to  the  tempta- 
tion of  utter  unrestraint,  and  with  wild  laughter  let 
her  voice  out  to  its  full  compass. 

As  she  paused  a  breathless  moment,  the  old  man 
cried  "Brava!"  and  clapped  applause. 

On  the  porch  beneath  them  sat  Pilgrim  and  Archer 
smoking.  The  engineer  was  of  no  mind  to  talk,  and 
Archer  respected  his  disinclination.  At  last  Pilgrim 


436  CIRCUMSTANCE 

spoke,  as  the  song  rang  out  overhead.  "What  a 
strange  voice  she  has,  so  distinct,  so  entirely  true. 
Listen !  Do  you  know  what  she  is  singing,  Archer  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"As  well  not.  And  in  this  house!  It  is  intoler- 
able, Sydney.  I  shall  go  to  my  room;  I  have  let- 
ters to  write.  Let  me  know  when  she  goes  out. ' ' 

"I  will." 

He  paused   for  a  moment  listening,    caught  in 

•JF    the  meshes  of  a  distant  memory.     The  songs  were 

&      not  all  evil.     As  he  lingered,  she  was  singing  the  lay 

/  g     the  Mexican  fishermen's  wives  sing  to  their  children 

when  the  boats  are  coming  laden  to  shore.     He  had 

heard  it  when  she  sat  by  his  side,  and  kept  time  with 

her  fan  as  she  cooled  his  fever  long  ago,  when  she 

was  for  him  an  innocent  girl  who  had  risked  her  all 

for  his  love.     He  turned  away,  and  went  up-stairs. 

After  his  friend  left  him  Archer  sat  still  on  the 
porch.  The  music  overhead  ceased,  and  the  hours 
of  a  sultry  afternoon  went  by.  He  had  much  to 
occupy  him.  Unless  he  failed,  he  should  have  done 
Grace  a  material  service,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  feel 
that  the  banker  need  not  know  who  did  it.  Also,  there 
were  more  things  to  think  of,  things  still  set  about 
with  doubts.  The  hours  slipped  away.  At  length  he 
saw  Mrs.  Hunter  at  a  distance,  walking  rapidly. 
She  had  gone  out  of  a  side  door  and  escaped  his 
watch.  He  made  haste  to  find  Pilgrim. 

"Mrs.  Hunter  has  gone  out.  I  missed  her.  If 
you  go  at  once  you  will  overtake  her  on  the  road.  If 
you  do  not  or  miss  her,  you  had  better  return  and 
wait  in  the  churchyard.  She  is  sure,  I  learn,  to 


CIRCUMSTANCE  437 

come  home  that  way;  otherwise  she  must  go  miles 
around  to  get  back,  and  it  is  late.  She  walks  very 
fast. ' ' 

Pilgrim  said  not  a  word.  As  he  went  out,  Archer 
called  after  him : 

"It  looks  a  little  as  though  we  might  have  a  thun- 
der-storm." 

Pilgrim  hastened  on,  making  no  reply,  eager  to  get 
it  all  over.  Archer  returned  to  the  veranda.  Then 
Miss  Fairthorne  came  down  all  in  white. 

"Mr.  Pilgrim  is  off  alone,  I  see.  I  thought  we 
might  have  had  him  with  us." 

"No.     Which  way  shall  we  go,  Miss  Mary?" 

"Oh,  over  the  creek,  across  the  fields.  There  is  a 
view  I  want  you  to  see.  It  looks  rather  threatening, 
does  n't  it?  But  you  really  must  see  St.  David's; 
we  need  not  be  long ;  we  will  come  back  that  way. ' ' 

"It  will  not  rain,"  he  said,  decidedly.  He  was 
by  no  means  sure.  As  for  St.  David's — well,  Luke 
would  in  his  evident  haste  be  sure  to  overtake  Lu- 
cretia.  They  would  not  come  in  his  way.  He  was 
too  anxious  to  give  it  more  thought,  only  seeing  that 
the  sky  was  already  clearing  again. 

They  went  away  through  the  first  roses  of  the  old- 
fashioned  garden  rather  silent,  now  and  then  letting 
fall  a  phrase.  He  was  doubly  distracted  by  the 
thought  of  Pilgrim  and  by  what  he  himself  meant 
to  say  to  the  girl  at  his  side.  She,  aware  of  some- 
thing unusual  in  the  man,  tried  in  vain  to  lead  the 
talk  into  by-roads  of  the  commonplace,  wished  her- 
self at  home,  and  was  conscious  of  danger  and  of 
happiness. 


438  CIRCUMSTANCE 

She  led  him  beside  the  fields  of  spring  wheat, 
over  rolling  uplands  and  by  forest  ways  to  a  hill- 
top, where  they  overlooked  the  peaceful  vales  and, 
not  far  away,  the  gray  church  among  the  graves. 
It  was  near  to  sunset,  and  the  doubtful  storm-clouds 
were  changefully  driven  across  the  western  sky.  As 
they  stood,  he  said  : 

"How  very  still  it  is  here,  and  what  tumult 
there."  As  he  spoke  the  darkening  cloud-curtains 
slowly  parted,  and  in  a  minute  there  was  between 
them  a  vast  flare  of  crimson. 

Mary's  pleasure  at  this  wonder  of  color  showed 
in  the  look  of  joyful  interest  which  possessed  her 
face. 

"How  can  people  fear  the  lightning  and  thunder 
of  a  storm?  When  there  is  such  a  royal  blazoning 
in  the  heavens  one  would  expect  some  triumphant 
sound.  A  great  sunset  brings  to  me  a  feeling  of 
expectancy  of  something  about  to  happen. ' ' 

"That  is  what  I  feel  at  daybreak,"  he  returned. 
"Not  now,  not  here." 

The  cloud-curtain  closed  in  gray-green  masses, 
and  as  she  spoke  a  lance  of  lightning  darted  across 
the  blackness  and,  as  it  were,  shivered  into  splinters 
of  violet  light.  Instantly  a  thunderous  peal  rolled 
resonant  among  the  peaks  and  abysses  of  the  vast 
mountain  cloudland. 

"You  have  your  wish,"  he  cried,  "and  more,"  for 
the  great  rain-drops  began  to  fall. 

"Come,"  she  answered,  laughing;  "as  a  weather- 
prophet  I  will  none  of  you  in  future.  We  can 
reach  the  church  in  time— perhaps."  At  first  she 


CIRCUMSTANCE  439 

thought  of  a  cottage  not  far  away,  but  the  church 
was  nearer,  and  at  all  events  she  was  glad  of  the 
need  for  quick  movement.  She  led  the  way,  walk- 
ing swiftly.  The  rain  fell  faster. 

' '  This  way, ' '  she  called  to  him,  as  they  crossed  the 
graveyard.  ''The  stairs  to  the  organ-loft  are  shel- 
tered." 

"We  are  just  in  time,"  he  said,  and,  merry  over 
their  escape,  they  sat  down  on  the  stone  stairway 
under  cover,  while  the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  Except 
for  a  word  now  and  then  they  remained  silent.  He 
was  intent  on  the  face  of  the  woman.  Once  he 
spoke  of  the  dance  of  the  leaves  as  the  drops  fell 
upon  them.  She  made  no  reply,  save  to  look  at  him 
and  to  nod,  smiling. 

She  had  wholesome  pleasure  in  what  she  saw  as 
they  looked  out  from  the  over-arched  stair,  and  fear- 
lessly enjoyed  the  drama  of  a  summer  storm.  Mean- 
while, the  fast-coming  clouds  made  a  sudden  twi- 
light. Little  gusts  of  wind  fell  here  and  there,  and 
shook  the  spring  leafage.  Then  a  greater  wind 
swooped  down  with  patter  of  driven  drops  aslant  on 
the  gravestones,  as  the  storm  breath  swayed  the  gray 
columns  of  rain. 

Archer  respected  her  wish  to  be  silent  in  the  pres- 
ence of  these  elemental  forces. 

"Where,"  he  thought,  "can  Pilgrim  be— and  Mrs. 
Hunter?" 

Presently  she  spoke. 

"I  never  want  to  talk  when  we  have  these  great 
storms.  It  seems  irreverent." 

"I,  too,  have  the  desire  to  be  still  during  a  tern- 


440  CIRCUMSTANCE 

pest.  It  is  so  terribly  suggestive  of  unused  power. 
I  think  it  will  soon  be  over." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "the  storm  is  nearly  past.  The 
rain  has  stopped.  Let  us  go." 

She  rose  and  went  down  the  stair  and  out  into  the 
glory  of  the  second  twilight,  for  now  the  clouds, 
piled  in  dim  masses  above  the  fallen  sun,  set  free  a 
glow  of  orange  light  to  glorify  the  glistening  earth. 

"Is  not  that,"  she  said,  "a  thing  to  remember?" 

"Surely,  I  shall  not  forget  it." 

"Before  we  go,  will  you  please  to  find  my  fan 
for  me  ?  I  left  it  this  morning  in  the  organ-loft,  on 
a  stool  to  the  left.  Here  is  the  key.  Be  careful; 
there  is  a  step  down,  and  it  must  be  dark.  I  will 
wait  for  you  here." 

Archer  took  the  key  and  went  up  the  stone  stair 
which  led,  and  still  leads,  from  outside  to  the  gal- 
lery. It  was  very  dark  and  he  had  to  move  with 
care.  He  found  the  fan,  and  then  something  hap- 
pened. He  stood  amazed. 

When  Pilgrim  left  the  house  of  the  Fairthornes 
Mrs.  Hunter  was  out  of  sight,  and,  in  his  ignorance 
of  the  country,  the  engineer  concluded  to  follow 
Archer's  advice.  He  therefore  went  within  the 
churchyard  gate  and  waited.  After  fully  an  hour 
he  saw  Mrs.  Hunter  descending  the  hill.  She  must 
pass  close  by  him.  He  stepped  back  a  little  and 
waited,  not  conscious  for  the  time  of  the  gathered 
storm.  There  was  a  vivid  flash  of  light  and  a  quick 
following  crash  of  thunder.  He  heard  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter's exclamation  of  terror,  and  remembered  her 
alarm  at  lightning.  The  rain  fell  in  large  drops. 


CIECUMSTANCE  441 

"This  way,"  he  said,  as  she  turned  in  at  the  gate, 
not  seeing  him. 

"Ah!"  she  cried;  "you  here?" 

"This  way,  this  way,"  he  repeated.  "Perhaps 
the  church  may  be  open." 

"No,"  she  said;  "I  will  go  on.  There  are  worse 
things  than  a  storm." 

He  caught  her  wrist. 

"I  came  here,"  he  said,  "to  have  a  talk  with  you. 
I  mean  to  have  it,  if  I  have  to  force  you  to  stay. ' ' 

Another  blinding  fire-bolt  crossed  the  darken- 
ing sky. 

"Madre  de  Dios!"  she  cried.  "Anywhere — any- 
where ! ' ' 

He  tried  the  church  door.  It  yielded,  and  they 
went  in. 

"Sit  down." 

She  sat  down  on  a  bench  at  the  back  of  the  little 
church,  now  in  twilight  gloom. 

"  If  I  must,  I  must.     What  is  it  1 " 

He  stood  before  her,  and  for  a  brief  moment  was 
still. 

"When  we  last  met  you  asked  me  not  to  speak  of 
you  and  of  your  life  to  these  people,  my  friends. ' ' 

"You  promised.     Do  you  mean  to  speak  now?" 

"I  did  not  promise.  Since  then  I  have  learned 
more  than  enough  to  make  it  my  duty  to  see  that 
they  know  you  as  I  know  you." 

"Your  duty!"  she  cried.  "I  like  that!  Your 
pleasure,  you  mean." 

"I  do  not  mean  to  have  a  contest  of  words  with 
you.  Listen !  I  will  not  say  to  Mr.  Fairthorne  or  to 


442  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Miss  Fairthorne  one  word  about  you  if  you  will  go 
away,  not  to  return. ' ' 

"And  if  not?" 

"Well,  if  not,  I  will  tell  them  all." 

"All  what?  Do  you  think  he  will  care?  Non- 
sense! He  would  laugh  at  you." 

"Very  good.  There  is  my  marriage,  a  forged  let- 
ter, the  life  at  Tahiti,  the  pleasant  wreck  of  those 
kindly  people  in  Montreal,  the — oh !  there  is  more 
of  it  and  worse.  Do  you  think  the  Swan  wicks  and 
Miss  Fairthorne  would  leave  you  here  a  day  after 
I  have  told  my  story?  They  would  simply  turn 
you  out.  Fairthorne  would  be  made  to  yield.  You 
would  lose  your  money.  Oh,  at  need,  I  will  make  it 
public.  You  must  go ! " 

Lucretia  would  have  given  much  for  time  to  re- 
flect, to  decide.  The  man  was  coldly  implacable. 

"Let  me  think  of  it,"  she  said. 

"Not  a  minute.     Yes  or  no— go  or  stay?" 

"You  are  hard,  cruel."  He  made  no  comment. 
She  was  dreadfully  in  doubt.  If  she  stayed,  all  was 
lost.  Even  the  codicil  might,  as  Archer  had  said, 
be  called  in  question.  If  she  left,  the  family,  on  their 
uncle's  death,  might  not  disturb  or  dispute  it.  Per- 
haps they  would  think  her  absence  cheaply  bought. 
And  there  was  Lionel,  too.  As  she  resolutely  took 
time  to  think  he  stood  in  silence.  The  rain  tram- 
pled on  the  roof  overhead,  and  vivid  flashes  at  times 
lighted  up  the  darkening  interior. 

"If  I  go,"  she  asked,  "will  they  dispute  what  he 
has  left  me?  I  earned  it — honestly  earned  it." 

He  smiled  as  he  answered :  "  I  think  they  will  not 


CIRCUMSTANCE  443 

dispute  it,  but  I  can  make  no  promises  for  other- 
people,  or  for  John  Fairthorne.  But  go  you  must, 
or  I  shall  speak  out  this  evening,  and  most  freely." 

"  If  I  go,  how  long  will  you  give  me  ?  My  brother 
is  in  trouble.  If  I  go  to  the  city  as  if  for  a  time, 
and  then — 

"No,  you  leave  the  city.  As  to  how  long  you 
may  stay  here— you  asked  that,  I  think?" 

"I  did.     Give  me  a  week." 

He  made  a  sort  of  compromise.  "To-day  is  Sun- 
day. On  Wednesday  you  go. ' ' 

"I  will  go  on  Wednesday."  As  she  spoke  she 
rose.  It  was  too  much,  first  Archer  and  then  this 
man.  She  stood  still,  helpless,  beaten,  and  raging 
with  anger  fed  by  deadliest  hate.  She  longed  to 
strike  him.  He  stood  still,  watching  her. 

At  last  he  said  quietly,  "That  is  all.  And  now  I 
shall  leave  you." 

"No,  it  is  not  all."  Her  voice  rose  shrill  and 
high  in  anger.  "You  have  driven  me  out,  and 
never —  " 

' '  Hush ! "  he  said.     ' '  Hush,  I  hear  some  one. ' ' 

In  the  brief  time  of  their  silence  Archer  had 
found  the  fan.  As  Lucretia's  voice  rang  out  he 
stopped,  astonished.  Amid  the  roar  of  the  rain  he 
had  heard  slight  noises  below  him,  but  thought  it 
some  sexton  or  other  caretaker. 

Lucretia  mocked  at  the  warning. 

"Why  should  I  hush  ? "  It  was  rare  with  her  that 
wrath  routed  prudence.  "Oh!  You  order  me  to 
go !  As  if  I  did  not  know  why.  You  are  more  of  a 
fool  than  you  were  as  a  boy." 


444  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Have  you  no  sense?     There  is  some  one—" 

"What  is  that  to  me?  You  don't  get  off  that 
way.  I  will  tell  you  why  you  want  me  out  of  that 
house.  It  would  be  rather  awkward  to  make  love  to 
another  woman  with  your  dear,  divorced  wife  in  the 
same  house." 

"Do  not  dare  to  speak  of  her."  He  turned  to  go. 
She  caught  his  arm.  Without  violence  he  could  not 
release  himself. 

"Oh,  that  hurt  you,  did  it  ?  She  will  never  marry 
you.  I  saw  her  diary.  It  was  entertaining ;  rather 
careless,  was  n't  it?  I  am  now  her  confidante;  it 
would  surprise  her.  She  is  in  love  with  the  other 
man.  Do  you  hear? — with  the  other  man.  Archer 
will  cut  you  out.  I  suppose  he  will  some  day  have 
the  courage  to  ask  her.  Now,  you  may  go.  Advise 
him  to  write  to  her.  Some  women  are  very  yielding 
on  paper,  and  it  is  so  nice  to  help  one's  friends." 
She  laughed  savagely.  "I  always  did  love  to  ,do 
things  for  you." 

"I  ought  to  have  strangled  you  long  ago,"  he  said, 
and  went  out  where  the  unveiled  glow  of  the  sunset 
lay  on  the  early  leafage  and  the  gray  tombstones. 
He  walked  away,  across  the  graves  and  over  the 
fields. 

The  woman  waited  alone,  and,  hearing  Archer  in 
the  organ-loft,  thought: 

"There  was  some  one.  I  must  go.  Three  days- 
well,  I  made  him  uncomfortable.  It  was  foolish, 
reckless,  but— how  he  hated  it !  If  I  were  sure  about 
that  codicil,  I  should  not  care.  He  will  keep  his 
word;  he  always  did." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  445 

She  followed  him  through  the  graveyard  and  up 
the  hill  a  mile  or  more  to  Edge  wood.  There,  some- 
what later,  she  saw  Miss  Fairthorne,  and  said  she 
was  going  to  the  city  at  once,  as  she  had  an  ap- 
pointment with  her  brother.  She  would  return 
next  day. 

Archer  went  slowly  down  the  steps,  out  of  the 
organ-loft,  to  where  Miss  Fairthorne  was  standing 
in  the  lessening  sunset  light,  "a  daughter  of  the 
gods,  divinely  tall  and  most  divinely  fair." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  saw  Mrs.  Hunter  go 
by.  I  wonder  where  she  took  refuge.  How  beauti- 
ful it  is !  I  love  this  old  church.  Here  is  Anthony 
Wayne's  tombstone,  and  there  are  some  of  the  un- 
known dead  who  died  at  Paoli  in  the  fight."  They 
went  to  and  fro,  reading  the  love,  the  lies,  the  fool- 
ishness on  the  gray  slabs,  interested  as  we  all  are  to 
see  what  the  living  have  written  of  the  dead. 

They  paused  just  within  the  gateway,  as  he  said, 
looking  back:  "How  like  the  little  church  is  to  one 
near  our  southern  home." 

"Have  you  heard  from  home  lately?"  she  asked, 
and  went  on  to  inquire  as  to  his  own  people,  of  the 
brother  now  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  of  the 
cousins  who  had  at  last  consented  to  forgive  his 
loyalty  to  his  country.  She  knew  how  freely  he  had 
helped  them  when  the  means  of  helpfulness  had  been 
found  at  the  cost  of  much  privation.  She  was  not 
beyond  being  influenced  by  the  appearance  of  the 
physical  man.  As  Archer  moved  ahead  of  her  and 
turned,  she  felt  a  certain  satisfaction  in  his  well-knit 
figure,  the  look  of  strength  in  face  and  form,  as  of  a 


446  flECUM  STANCE 

man  who  owned  and  was  master  of  himself  in  mind 
and  muscle. 

"Do  you  ever  record  your  thoughts?"  he  said, 
rather  abruptly. 

' '  Sometimes.  What  a  curious  question !  Why  do 
you  ask?" 

"Why  you,  yourself,  asked  me  just  now  as  we  sat 
on  the  stairway  if  I  kept  note-books,  and  how  thought 
about  scientific  questions  matured— how  it  was  dealt 
with.  I  said  I  had  to  think  on  paper.  I  wanted  to 
know  if  this  were  true  of  you. ' ' 

' '  I  keep  a  diary. ' ' 

' '  Indeed !     What  gets  into  it  ? " 

"Many  things — notes  about  books,  remarks,  who 
dine  with  us,  all  kind  of  trifles." 

"Do  you  ever  set  down  your  opinions  of  people?" 

"Yes;  Mrs.  Hunter's  biographer  would  be  en- 
lightened. I  wrote  to-day  that  you  had  been  mys- 
terious. ' ' 

"Ah,  then  I  do  get  in  sometimes.  Do  you  ever 
write  of  yourself?" 

"Rarely.     Not  of  ten— sometimes. " 

"Do  you  find,  as  I  do,  that  to  state  a  problem 
on  paper  is  the  best  way  to  approach  it?" 

' '  I  have  no  such  problems. ' ' 

"I  have  one  now." 

"I  am  bad  at  problems.  They  are  very  disap- 
pointing. I  hate  them." 

"But  suppose  you  were  ever  to— well,  to  like  a 
man,  would  you  write  about  it  in  your  diary,  and 
would  it  help  you  to  decide?" 

"It  might,  if  I  were  ever  in  so  sad  a  state." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  447 

He  laughed. 

"I  should  like  to  know  if  ever  by  chance  I  have 
the  honor  to  be  in  that  diary." 

"Certainly— when  you  dine  with  us." 

"And  nobody  ever  sees  it?" 

"No  one.     I  keep  it  locked." 

"Suppose  I  were  to  guess  a  little  as  to  what  is 
in  it?" 

She  colored  slightly:  "If  you  knew,  I  should 
deny  it." 

"Ah,  Miss  Mary,  it  is  your  heart  I  should  like 
to  read." 

"It  is  uncertain,  variable,  not  worth  reading." 

"Well,  then,  your  diary.  Let  us  try.  One  day 
you  wrote  that  you  did  care  for  a  man.  Oh,  you 
put  it  more  plainly  than  I  dare  to  put  it.  Mary 
Fairthorne,  he  is  here— here  at  your  side.  He  has 
long  loved  you.  Will  you  let  him  go  on  alone,  with- 
out you  ? ' ' 

She  was  looking  down  as  he  spoke,  and  for  a 
moment  was  silent.  Then  she  said : 

"I  knew  this  would  come.  I  have  feared  it  for 
you,  for  myself." 

"Was  it  only  fear,  Mary?" 

"No."     She  walked  on,  not  speaking. 

"I  have  had  a  rather  hard  life,  you  know  that; 
but  not  even  my  break  with  friends,  my  family,  my 
home,  in  the  war  days,  ever  hurt  as  one  little  word 
from  you  will  hurt." 

"I  shall  never  say  it." 

"That  is  not  enough." 

"But  will  you  not  wait?" 


448  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"No,  not  now." 

"But  if  I  am  not  sure?     I  really  am  not  sure." 

"We  cannot  leave  it  in  this  way.  How  can  I 
make  you  more  certain?  You  will  never  know  me 
better." 

She  moved  on  without  looking  at  him,  saying: 
' '  Come  away  from  these  tombs. ' ' 

He  followed  her  as  they  passed  out  into  the 
road. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  want  my  answer,  Mary." 

"I  think  I  love  you,"  she  said,  turning  a  grave 
face  to  him. 

He  leaned  over  and  gently  lifted  and  kissed  her 
hand.  Then  she  knew,  and  said : 

"I  think  I  know  that  I  love  you,  Sydney." 

"Say  it,  Mary." 

"I  love  you,"  she  repeated  timidly,  and  among  the 
gathering  shadows  they  went  up  the  hill  in  the  faith 
of  love's  fresh  childhood,  hand  in  hand. 

"God  bless  you,  dear,"  he  said,  and  she  went  up 
to  her  room. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  the  two  men  strolled 
about  in  the  brick  walks  of  the  garden,  between  the 
high  rows  of  clipped  box.  Here,  omitting  all  that 
was  personal  to  either  himself  or  his  friend,  Pilgrim 
told  him  of  what  had  passed  in  the  church  that 
afternoon. 

"And  now,"  he  added,  "you  will  be  quit  of  this 
plague.  I  wish  I  could  as  easily  blot  her  from  my 
own  life.  She  will  go,  and  no  one  here  will  know 
why.  I  shall  say  good-bye  to  the  Swanwicks  and 
wander  abroad.  If  my  chest  threatens  me  with  trou- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  449 

ble  I  shall  go  to  Egypt  for  the  winter,  as  you  de- 
sired." 

1  'You  will  have  no  trouble,"  said  Archer;  "you 
are  as  well  as  a  man  can  be. ' ' 

"And  now,"  said  Pilgrim,  "as  you  condemn  me 
to  early  hours,  I  shall  say  good  night  to  Miss  Mary 
and  so  to  bed.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  had  an  illness. 
No,  I  have  no  pain.  I  am  merely  used  up  for  the 
time." 

Sydney  went  out  on  the  porch  and  waited,  reflect- 
ing, as  he  walked  up  and  down,  on  the  harsh  pun- 
ishment life  provided  for  a  man  who,  in  the  chivalry 
of  a  young  man's  love,  had  wrecked  his  fortunes 
and  his  life  to  guard  a  woman's  honor.  He  realized 
the  horror  with  which  a  refined  nature  must  by  de- 
grees have  discovered  the  true  personality  of  this 
attractive  woman.  He  tried  to  put  himself  in  Pil- 
grim's place.  It  was  a  game  of  which,  as  a  student 
of  his  kind,  he  was  fond. 

"Ah,  I  should  have  killed  the  man!  Why  did 
he  not?"  There  seemed  to  him  to  be  here  some- 
thing about  his  friend  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"I  hope  this  patience,"  said  Mary,  when  she  ap- 
peared, "is  a  good  promise  of  what  you  will  have 
need  of.  Uncle  John  sent  for  me.  He  was  in  pain ; 
now  he  is  better  and  asleep." 

What  they  said  does  not  concern  us  here.  It  has 
been  said  before,  and  will  be  many  times  again.  The 
man  had  come  by  degrees  through  friendship  to 
love.  The  woman,  long  in  doubt,  was  now  in  the 
bewilderment  of  one  suddenly  come  ashore  in  a 

29 


460  CIRCUMSTANCE 

new  land.  Fear,  a  gentle  fear,  interest,  a  new 
tongue  to  learn,  were  all  hers. 

"I  thought  once,  Sydney,"  she  said,  "I  mean  I 
was  afraid,  that  you  were  to  be  one  of  Kitty's  cap- 
tives. I  did  not  like  it.  I  suppose  that  was  a  form 
of  jealousy.  I  do  not  think  I  knew  why  it  troubled 
me.  Was  it  love?  Love  in  its  infancy  must  be  in- 
geniously prophetic.  I  am  jealous  yet." 

"I  should  not  be  the  man  I  want  you  to  think  me 
if  I  simply  put  that  aside.  Miss  Kitty  is  a  perilous 
person.  She  likes  the  pursuit,  the  game,  not  the 
final  object  of  the  game — a  woman  to  whose  eyes  it 
is  hard  to  say  no,  a  woman  whom  to  know  more 
nearly  is  to  pity,  and  at  last  to  fear.  I  never  felt 
for  her  more  than  that  attraction  which  many  have 
felt.  I  like  to  feel  that  all  the  past  is  clear  between 
you  and  me.  Is  it  not  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  To  a  woman  like  me,  Kitty  is  an  enigma. 
Margaret  says  no,  that  I  manufacture  enigmas,  and 
that  Kitty  is  simple." 

"Let  us  drop  Miss  Kitty.  When  you  came  out  I 
was  thinking  of  a  man  I  know  whose  life  has  been 
unhappy.  I  was  trying  to  explain  him  to  my  own 
mind,  to  realize  him.  I  used  to  think  him  also  sim- 
ple, and  in  a  way  he  is. ' ' 

"Well,  forget  him  too,  Sydney.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  have  been  thinking  of  any  one  but  Mary 
Fairthorne.  I  sometimes  think  no  one  is  simple.  I 
know  that  in  a  few  hours  I  am  become  dreadfully 
complex. ' ' 

"I  think,"  he  returned,  "that  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
find  myself  simplified.  I  have  good  news  for  you. ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  451 

"As  good  as  to-day's?"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"Or  was  it  so  very  good,  the  news  I  gave  you?" 

"Ah,  not  like  that.  But  good,  worth — well,  I 
am  generous,  Mary ;  I  make  no  bargains.  You  shall 
name  the  honorarium. ' ' 

"Please  to  tell  me." 

"Mrs.  Hunter  will  depart  on  Wednesday,  and 
go,  never  to  come  back. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Hunter!  Go!  Impossible,  Sydney.  My 
uncle  will  never,  never  let  her  go.  And  why  does 
she  want  to  go  ? " 

"She  must  go." 

"But  why?    Do  tell  me." 

"I  am  not  free  to  tell  you,  but  go  she  will." 

"Now,  this  was  why  you  were  so  mysterious,  but 
is  it — can  it  be  true?" 

"Yes;  but  why  she  goes  you  may  never  know. 
It  is  not  my  secret.  As  for  your  uncle,  she  will, 
I  fancy,  make  excuses  and  write  to  him,  and,  for 
very  good  reasons,  try  to  keep  him  in  a  good  hu- 
mor. But  of  this  rest  assured — she  will  never  come 
back. ' ' 

"Thank  God!"  she  said.  "Oh,  Sydney,  no  one 
knows  what  this  winter  has  been  to  me,  no  one ! ' ' 

"My  dear  love,  are  you  crying?"  She  was  sob- 
bing like  a  child. 

' '  Tears  of  thankfulness ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  have  gone 
through  so  much — so  much !  And  I  am  so,  so  happy. 
Let  me  be  quiet  a  little.  Don't  speak  to  me."  He 
was  silent,  respectful  of  her  mood,  until  she  said: 
"There,  you  see  what  a  child  I  can  be,  how  foolish, 
how  weak!" 


452  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"There  is  weakness  one  could  ill  spare,"  he  re- 
turned. 

"Thank  you." 

"And  my  honorarium?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  not  for  that — that  woman." 

"Well,  not  for  that.  I  want  those  dear  lips  to 
speak  to  me,  to  mine." 

She  blushed  red,  under  the  masking  darkness  of 
the  night,  but  paid  him  honestly. 

They  talked  far  into  the  night,  and,  as  she  rose, 
he  said:  "I  will  walk  over  to  Grace's  now,  and  go 
to  town  early  to-morrow.  I  shall  see  Mrs.  Swan- 
wick  some  time  during  the  day.  May  I  tell  her?" 

"Yes,  and  the  little  ladies,  our  dear  white  mice, 
and  your  mother,  of  course,  you  will  write,  Syd- 
ney. No  one  else  just  now.  I  shall  say  nothing  to 
uncle  until  that  woman  goes— if  she  goes.  It  is  too 
good  to  be  true." 

"She  will,  and  now  I  must  go." 

When,  on  this  Sunday  night,  Mrs.  Hunter  set  foot 
in  the  city  she  had  two  errands;  one  was  easy,  and 
concerning  the  other  she  had  the  indecision  of  a 
woman  who,  having  been  more  than  once  on  the 
verge  of  serious  crime,  had  always  drawn  back  in 
the  dread  of  consequences. 

In  the  exaltation  of  alcohol,  now  an  habitual  indul- 
gence, and,  too,  under  the  pressure  of  debt,  Craig 
had  written  the  letter  to  Grace.  It  was  no  sooner 
sent  than  he  fell  into  the  clutches  of  fear,  and  stayed 
away  from  the  office,  declaring  that  he  was  ill.  His 
fears  had  not  been  lessened  by  Blount's  visit. 

He  was  out  when  Mrs.  Hunter  called  on  this  Sun- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  453 

day  evening.  She  took  a  room  for  the  night,  and 
sat  down  in  his  untidy  apartment  to  wait  for 
him.  When  she  had  decided  on  action  she  was  apt 
to  become  impatient.  She  remained  quiet  for  a 
while,  and  then  walked  to  and  fro,  sat  down  again, 
and  saw  the  hours  go  by,  while  she  thought  of  this 
reckless  brother  or  turned  to  think  of  the  graver 
matter  which  so  much  concerned  her. 

Meanwhile  Lionel,  who  had  kept  his  room  all  day, 
was  glad  of  the  cover  of  darkness,  and  ventured  out 
to  wander  from  one  bar-room  to  another,  on  the  way 
to  make  more  mischief  and  to  be  the  ignorant,  indi- 
rect cause  of  good. 

Martin  Blount  was  now  living  with  Grace  at  his 
farm.  It  was  from  a  strong  feeling  of  loyalty,  and 
with  reluctance,  that  he  had  given  up  the  self-sup- 
port his  clerkship  offered.  Now,  reassured  by 
Archer  and  by  what  he  saw  of  Grace 's  ordered  life, 
he  began  to  regret  his  action.  But  Archer  was  very 
busy,  and  the  laboratory  work  was  important  and 
interesting.  He  could  not  at  present  abandon  it. 
Archer  had  asked  him,  at  last,  to  take  entire  charge, 
for  the  time,  of  the  mere  mechanical  labor  which  at 
this  stage  of  the  investigation  was  such  as  Blount 
could  readily  manage.  To  aid  his  labor,  Archer  wrote 
out  with  care  the  needed  directions,  and,  Grace  con- 
senting to  spare  the  young  man  for  a  week  from  his 
work  of  cataloguing,  Martin  determined  to  remain 
for  that  time  in  the  city.  Archer  was  glad  of  the  re- 
lief. He  was  not  himself  in  a  condition  of  mind  to 
give  to  experimental  work  that  incessant  thought 
which  is  one  of  the  essential  elements  of  success.  He 


454  CIRCUMSTANCE 

was  about  to  conduct  a  far  more  absorbing  inves- 
tigation. 

When  Blount  had  arranged  to  his  satisfaction  for 
a  week's  stay  at  Miss  Markham's,  and  had  received 
Archer's  final  instructions,  he  naturally  inquired 
concerning  Mrs.  Hunter.  Archer  said  it  was  a  long 
matter,  and  was  so  plainly  preoccupied  that  Blount, 
who  was  slowly  acquiring  social  wisdom,  felt  that 
he  had  better  await  a  less  busy  hour. 

On  this  Sunday,  while  Lucretia  waited  for  her 
brother,  Martin,  having  finished  some  needed  labora- 
tory work,  at  evening  returned  to  Miss  Markham's 
for  supper.  The  ladies  still  adhered  to  the  old 
custom  of  a  midday  dinner  on  Sunday.  After  sup- 
per he  went  up  with  Knellwood  to  Grace's  library 
and  was  soon  deep  in  eager  talk  of  the  lands 
Knellwood  was  about  to  visit,  or  had  already  seen 
when  a  lad.  The  younger  man,  in  turn,  spoke  of 
Vienna,  and  how  he  must  get  a  year  there,  when  he 
had  been  graduated.  He  was  already  learning 
German. 

"And  then,"  said  Knellwood,  "after  that— 
what?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  settle  here  or  in  New  York.  I  shall 
get  on."  He  was  confident. 

"And  of  course  a  professorship."  said  the  rector, 
amused  at  an  assurance  which  smiled  at  fate  and  took 
no  account  of  circumstance. 

He  himself  lacked  this  absolute  trust  in  his  own 
will,  even  in  his  own  moral  nature,  and  was  now 
about  to  flee  like  a  bird  scared  at  the  net  of  the 
fowler. 


CIECUMSTANCE  455 

"Well,  Martin,"  he  said,  "it  is  pleasant  to  see  a 
fellow  so  securely  confident  of  success;  and  yet,  life 
will  as  like  as  not  refuse  what  you  expect  to  get,  and 
give  what  you  never  dreamed  of  getting." 

Martin  looked  at  the  speaker  in  some  surprise. 
He  had  himself  had  hard  work,  but  he  had  never 
failed  to  win  what  he  wanted.  Perhaps  the  note  of 
sadness  in  the  rector's  voice  made  him  ask  with  his 
occasional  indiscreet  directness:  "Have  you  ever 
failed  to  get  what  you  wanted  ? ' ' 

Knell  wood  smiled.  "No,  not  to  get  what  I  wanted, 
but  rather  to  be  what  I  want  to  be." 

' '  Oh,  but  that  's  in  a  man 's  own  power.  A  fellow 
can  always  manage  that. ' ' 

"Can  he,  indeed !  I  hope  that  you  may  always  be 
able  to  say  that." 

The  talk  soon  fell  upon  English  cathedrals,  and 
the  rector  had  a  happy  listener. 

A  little  later  Lionel  Craig,  reeking  with  tobacco 
and  in  the  exuberant  stage  of  alcoholic  confidence, 
rang  a  double  peal  at  Miss  Markham's  door.  Why 
he  went  thither  it  would  have  puzzled  him  to  say. 
The  next  day  he  hazily  recalled  having  had  some- 
thing very  important  to  say  to  somebody.  Blount 
must  have  been  associated  in  his  mind  with  the  house. 
He  certainly  had  no  desire  to  see  him  when  he  him- 
self was  in  control  of  the  small  amount  of  wits 
with  which  nature  in  a  sparing  mood  had  endowed 
him. 

"Mr.  Blount  at  home?"  he  asked.  "You  say 
I  'm  here.  Want  to  see  him."  He  went  past  the 
old  black  woman  whom  his  violent  pull  at  the  bell 


456  CIRCUMSTANCE 

had  aroused  from  slumber,  and  entered  the  dimly 
lighted  parlor. 

Clementina  Markham,  her  finger  in  the  book  she 
had  been  reading,  was  aroused  from  sad  thought  as 
Craig  entered.  Somewhat  surprised,  she  stood  up, 
in  summer  white,  simple  as  a  wild  rose,  and  sweet 
with  many  ways  of  gentleness. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Clementina,"  said  Craig; 
"come  to  pay  a  visit." 

She  had  no  experience  of  intoxicated  men,  but  this 
was  obviously  a  man  not  quite  sober. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  said,  very  quietly. 

Craig  held  himself  for  a  moment  till  the  room 
stopped  swinging  round.  When  it  came  to  a  rest, 
he  inquired: 

"Old  man  in?"  This  might  have  borne  some  dull 
reference  to  Grace. 

"Who?"  she  asked.     "I  do  not  understand." 

"Old  man  Grace." 

"You  are  insolent,"  she  said;  "you  have  been 
drinking.  Mr.  Grace  is  not  here;  he  does  not  live 
here.  You  had  better  go  home." 

He  caught  at  the  back  of  a  chair  to  steady  himself. 

"I  ain't  drunk;  just  a  bit  set  up.  You  need  n't 
make  a  fuss.  Old  Grace,  he  gets  drunk,  real  drunk 
— saw  him  at  Carlisle.  Oh,  I  ain't  afraid  of  him; 
got  him  safe  enough.  He  knows  me." 

She  rang  the  bell  at  her  side,  and  rang  again  till 
the  bell-rope  broke. 

"What  's  that  for?" 

The  servant  came  in  haste. 

"Call  Mr.  Blount,  Mr.  Knellwood,  quick — some 
one!" 


CIRCUMSTANCE  457 

"Want  to  see  Blount— you  ask  him  'bout  it. ' '  He 
had  the  singular  persistency  of  the  intoxicated.  ' '  He 
knows  'bout  old  Grace.  I  say,  you  set  down,  and 
I  '11  set  down;  we  '11  talk  it  over.  Don't  you  be 
afraid  of  Grace.  I  '11  protect  you.  He  knows  me— 
I  'm  Lionel  Craig." 

Blount  ran  down-stairs  and  into  the  room.  Miss 
Clementina,  flushed,  indignant,  troubled  as  never 
before  in  all  her  too  tranquil  life,  was  standing  with 
the  broken  bell-rope  in  her  hand. 

"This  man,  Martin— he  is  intoxicated.  He 
says — "  she  stopped.  "He  says — some  nonsense." 

"What  did  you  say?"  cried  Blount.  Craig  was 
far  over  the  line  of  dread  of  consequences. 

"She  says  I  'm  drunk.  I  say  old  Grace  he  gets 
drunk.  You  and  me  saw  him.  We  know— we  saw 
him — we  know,  don't  we?" 

Blount  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Out  of  this,"  he  said;  "don't  make  a  row  here." 

"You  let  me  alone." 

Blount,  with  no  gentle  hand,  pushed  him  out  into 
the  hall,  and,  swinging  open  the  street  door,  thrust 
him  forth  roughly. 

"If  you  were  not  drunk,  Craig,  I  would  thrash 
you  well.  Off  with  you !  By  George,  this  is  twice 
I  have  let  you  go !  If  ever  I  see  you  again,  if  it  be 
even  in  Roger  Grace's  office,  I  will —  Out  with 
you!"  He  pushed  him  down  the  steps,  and  left  him 
swearing  as  he  clung  to  a  tree-box  on  the  sidewalk. 

Blount  paused,  surprised,  at  the  door  of  the  par- 
lor. The  quiet  little  lady  there  had  seemed  to  him 
always  so  tranquil,  so  dutiful,  so  far  from  the  influ- 


468  CIRCUMSTANCE 

ence  of  passion  or  emotion  in  this  side  eddy  of  city 
life.  Now  she  was  seated,  her  head  in  her  hands, 
sobbing.  Martin,  who  loved  her  well,  stood  over 
her,  deeply  distressed. 

"But  he  has  gone,"  he  said.  "Please  don't  cry, 
Miss  Clementina."  He  was  puzzled  by  her  grief, 
and  sorry  for  what  he  could  not  understand.  She 
sat  with  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  making  no 
reply  to  his  embarrassed  efforts  to  comfort  her.  At 
last  she  sat  up,  hastily  wiped  her  eyes,  and  said : 

"Please  not  to  tell  Letitia." 

"Tell  what?  Why,  there  is  n't  any  harm  in  cry- 
ing. I  've  been  awful  near  it,  just  watching  you. 
I  '11  do  whatever  you  say." 

To  his  surprise,  she  stood  up  and  said  rapidly,  as 
she  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm : 

"What  he  said,  what  that  man  said  cannot  be 
true.  It — is — very  disagreeable  to  hear  such  things 
said.  Of  course  it  cannot  be  true!"  She  paused, 
as  if  for  assurance  of  the  untruth  of  this  drunken 
babble.  Martin,  embarrassed,  made  no  reply.  "Why 
don't  you  answer?"  she  continued.  "He  said— he 
saw— he  said  you  saw  Roger  Grace  at— at  Carlisle. 
Oh,  I  can't  talk  about  it!  You  heard  what  he 
said." 

"Why,  a  man  like  that,  Miss  Clementina,  will  say 
anything." 

Blount  looked  down  on  the  tearful,  questioning 
eyes.  What  honest  answer  could  he  make?  She 
hastened  to  explain  her  too  evident  anxiety.  "He 
has  been  so  good  to  me — to  us,  and  I  should  be  so 
sorry.  But  it  cannot  be  true.  You  can't  think  it 


CIRCUMSTANCE  459 

is?"  The  faint  smile  of  an  innocent  hope  was  as 
the  rainbow  to  these  tears.  "Please  tell  me." 

How  could  he  reply?     He  tried  to  escape. 

"You  can  never  believe  what  a  beast  like  that  says. 
I  would  n't  worry  about  Roger  Grace." 

Of  a  sudden  she  looked  like  the  rigid  little  grand- 
mother of  the  portrait  above  her.  She  shed  the  re- 
straints, the  prudence,  the  reserve  of  years. 

"You  should  know  better  than  to  trifle  with  me. 
I  insist  on  knowing.  Is  it  true  or  not?" 

He  was  yet  more  puzzled.  Here  was  another  Clem- 
entina. 

"I  cannot  tell  you."    He  was  at  his  wits'  end. 

"Then  it  is  true." 

He  urged  that  she  had  no  right  to  use  his  silence 
as  implying  an  affirmative.  She  said: 

"I  know,  I  know.  You  are  afraid  to  tell  me.  I 
thought  you,  at  least,  were  my  friend."  Then  she 
sat  down,  leaving  Martin  much  discomfited,  and  glad 
to  be  enabled  to  glide  quietly  out  of  the  room.  He 
went  up-stairs,  mind-blind,  as  he  said  in  after  years, 
face  to  face  with  his  first  serious  feminine  problem. 
He  thought : 

"  Is  a  secret  ever  kept  ?  Here  is  one  of  the  utmost 
moment,  and  Craig  and  I  and  Archer  and  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter, and  now  Miss  Clementina  all  know  it.  Grace 
would  pay  thousands  to  hide  it."  He  could  not 
help  wondering  why  it  so  deeply  troubled  Miss  Clem- 
entina. It  was  pretty  bad,  but  if  Grace  had  been 
her  brother  she  could  not  have  made  more  fuss.  He 
passed  Miss  Letitia  in  the  hall  and  to  her  question 
replied : 


460  CIRCUMSTANCE 

' '  Oh,  it  was  only  a  drunken  man.  I  put  him  out. ' ' 
The  gray-haired  lady  paused  at  the  open  door  of  the 
parlor. 

' '  Clementina ! ' '  she  exclaimed.  ' '  Look  at  the  floor, 
dear."  The  worn  Turkey  carpet  was  soiled  with  the 
mud  Craig's  feet  had  brought  in  from  the  street. 
Hearing  no  reply,  she  raised  her  head.  "Why,  my 
dear  sister,  you  have  been  weeping.  What  is  the 
matter?" 

"That  man  Craig  was  here.  He  was  intoxicated. 
He  was  disagreeable." 

"But  did  that  make  you  cry?  You  seem  discom- 
posed, Clementina,  and  for  a  creature  like  that !  If 
we  are  to  go  on  supporting  ourselves  we  must  take 
what  comes.  I  have  sometimes  reproached  myself  of 
/late  that  I  had  not  enough  insisted  on  the  govern- 
ment of  the  emotions.  When,  a  few  weeks  ago,  that 
butcher  was  in  haste  to  be  paid  and  was  inconsider- 
ate and,  I  may  say,  abrupt,  you  were  quite  needlessly 
disturbed." 

' '  I  think  I  had  better  go  to  bed, ' '  said  Clementina, 
who  had  the  desire  of  the  hurt  creature  to  find  a  lonely 
corner.  ' '  I  will  send  Susan  to  attend  to  the  carpet. ' ' 

"Do,  my  dear.  An  intoxicated  person!  It  does 
seem  to  me,  Clementina,  that  we  are  almost  keeping 
a  boarding-house." 

"  Or  a  tavern ! ' '  said  the  younger  lady,  sharply. 

"A  tavern!     I  would  not  quite  say  that,  dear." 

"Well,  as  you  please,  sister.  But  life  is  some- 
times very  hard,  very  difficult,  very — worthless." 

"Is  n't  that  rather  excessive,  and  I  might  even  say 
irrelevant?" 


CIRCUMSTANCE  461 

"Oh,  say  what  you  like,  I  don't  care.  Let  me  go. 
I  don't  care  what  any  one  says." 

' '  Clementina ! ' '    But  Clementina  had  fled. 

Miss  Letitia  raised  hands  of  dismay  and  surprise, 
looked  down  at  the  carpet,  and  then  at  the  general, 
and  last  at  the  Councilor  of  Penn.  She  took  the 
miniature  of  Gerald  from  the  mantel  and  kissed  it. 
Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  wiped  them  away 
with  a  quick  movement. 

"I  am  glad  Clementina  is  not  here,"  she  said 
aloud,  and  stood  still  until  the  mud  was  in  part 
cleaned  away.  "It  will  be  dry  to-morrow,  Susan. 
Then  you  can  brush  it  out.  Be  careful.  You  can 
always  brush  away  mud  marks  if  you  wait  until  the 
next  day,  but  not  always — other  things,"  she  added, 
reflectively,  unaware  of  being  an  heroic  person  or 
that,  as  often  before,  she  was  reinforcing  endurance 
with  memories  of  men  and  women  long  dead. 

She  went  up-stairs  automatically,  wiping  her  tear- 
dimmed  glasses. 

"Perhaps  I  was  too  severe  with  Tina,"  she  said  to 
herself.  Very  rarely  did  she  use  the  diminutive  of 
her  sister's  childhood.  "But  of  late  she  is  changed. 
I  suppose  she  is  feeling  the  results  of  this  uncertain 
life.  It  is  hard  on  the  young."  For  her  Tina  was 
always  a  girl,  needing  restraint  and  guidance.  Yes, 
she  had  been  severe.  She  remembered  her  merry, 
gay,  pretty,  and  prosperous.  It  was  not  so  very 
long  ago,  and  now —  She  knocked  at  her  sister's 
door.  "Tina,  dear." 

"I  am  undressing.     Good  night." 

"Will  you  have  a  little  valerian,  dear?" 


462  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Oh,  no !     There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

' '  Or  my  smelling-salts  ? ' ' 

Clementina  laughed  the  self-mocking  laugh  of  the 
wretched. 

"No,  no,"  and  Letitia  went  to  her  own  room,  re- 
proaching herself  and  unhappy. 

Clementina  sat  on  her  bedside.  "My  poor  Leti- 
tia!"  she  exclaimed.  "Well,  this  is  the  end.  What 
a  life !  What  a  life !  I  cannot  even  tell  him  how  I 
pity  him.  And  how  can  it  be?  A  man  like  him! 
Oh,  it  is  all  a  maddening  puzzle. ' '  She  laughed  out- 
right the  laugh  that  is  twin  to  tears.  "Valerian  for 
a  broken  heart!" 


XLIII 

JNELLWOOD  had  gone  to  his  room  for 
a  book  before  Blount  went  down-stairs. 
Martin,  returning,  found  him  again  in 
Grace's  library.  The  rector  looked  up, 
and  said :  ' '  The  bells  seem  to  have  gone 
mad  below  stairs.  What  was  it,  Blount?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  Craig  came  here  drunk.  I 
put  him  out." 

"Indeed!  I  went  down  as  far  as  the  door  of  the 
parlor.  He  must  have  gone.  I  only  heard  Miss 
Clementina  crying,  and  then  you  spoke.  Of  course 
I  did  not  go  in.  What  was  the  matter  ?  A  woman 
like  that  does  n't  cry  merely  because  a  drunken  man 
comes  in." 

' '  Oh,  women  are  extraordinary  things ! ' ' 
' '  Things !    My  dear  fellow, ' '  said  the  rector,  smil- 
ing, "you  had  better  not  classify  them  to  Mrs.  Swan- 
wick  as  things." 

"You  never  can  tell  what  they  will  do." 
"I  have  seen  men  to  whom  that  would  apply." 
"I  suppose  so." 

"I  heard  her  ask  you  if  what  Craig  said  was  true. 

What  was  it?     I  do  not  ask  lightly.     These  people 

are  now  my  friends.     I  owe  to  them  kindness  never 

to  be  repaid.     If  there  is  anything  going  wrong  that 

463 


464  CIRCUMSTANCE 

I  can  help  to  set  right,  I  want  to  help.  She  was 
plainly  in  distress.  If  for  any  reason  you  do  not 
want  to  speak  I  will  ask  her.  "Women  like  these  are 
reticent,  and  hide  things  when  sometimes  a  few  frank 
words  would  enable  one  to  help  them." 

Martin  felt,  as  he  listened,  that  it  was  hard  to 
know  what  to  do.  Here  was  Craig  again  drunkenly 
talkative.  How  many  people  had  he  talked  to  of 
this  matter?  More  than  ever  the  folly  of  an  over- 
sensitive man  became  plain  to  Blount.  Grace  ought 
to  know  how  little  good  his  weakness  had  done. 
Again  the  ethical  question  arose  in  the  young  man's 
mind,  but  now  it  embarrassed  him  less.  It  was 
hardly  to  be  called  a  secret  any  longer.  Presently 
others  would  know  it.  He  shared  to  some  extent  the 
feelings  of  Grace.  If  he  himself  had  fallen  like  his 
friend  he  would  have  fled  from  all  these  kindly  folk, 
ashamed.  He  hesitated  before  making  answer. 
Knellwood  waited.  At  last  Martin  said : 

1 '  That  miserable  sot  told  Miss  Clementina  that  he 
saw  Roger  Grace  drunk  at  Carlisle."  He  expected 
as  he  spoke  to  see  the  clergyman  astonished.  Knell- 
wood  showed  no  sign  of  surprise,  and  said,  quietly: 
"Is  that  all?" 

"All,  sir?     It  's  awful." 

"Do  you  believe  it?"  Blount  was  again  in  the 
toils. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  asked  any  questions  about  it." 

Knellwood  understood  at  once. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "I  shall  say  no  more:  but, 
leaving  you  out  of  the  matter  altogether,  Grace 
should  know  what  has  passed  here. ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  465 

"I  think  so,"  said  Martin.  "Yes,  I  really  think 
so."  He  was  greatly  relieved,  but  added,  quickly: 
"Will  you  tell  him?  And  you  will  not  speak  of  me? 
I  have  my  reasons." 

"I  will  see  Mr.  Grace  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  have 
no  occasion  to  use  your  name." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Blount.  Then  he  hesitated, 
and  said  at  last,  with  characteristic  courage:  "But 
if  there  is  any  doubt  about  it  in  Mr.  Grace's  mind, 
I  don't  want  to  shirk  the  matter,  even  if  it  might 
seem  to  him—  Well,  I  leave  it  all  to  you." 

' '  That  is  wise  and  right.  One  other  question,  and 
then  we  will  drop  it.  Was  Miss  Clementina  very 
much  troubled?" 

' '  I  should  say  she  was.  Why,  Mr.  Knell  wood,  she 
cried  like  a  baby.  It  was  really  rather  strange.  Of 
course  we  all  care  immensely  for  Mr.  Grace,  but  why 
it  should  set  Miss  Clementina  to  crying  is  past  my 
comprehension. ' ' 

"Indeed !  Well,  Martin,  women  are  a  soft-hearted 
folk.  You  cannot  always  know  what  they  mean. 
Poor  little  woman ! ' ' 

He  rose,  and  said  as  he  took  Martin's  hand :  "This 
has  been  a  grave  talk.  You  won't  mind  my  saying 
that  you  have  behaved  with  discretion  and  good 
sense.  Good  night." 

"Thank  you." 


XLIV 

JHEN,  late  this  Sunday  night,  Craig 
found  his  sister  in  his  room,  and  not 
the  more  amiable  for  waiting,  he  was 
in  no  state  to  be  dealt  with.  Early  on 
Monday  she  settled  matters  with  des- 
potic swiftness,  and  about  one  of  the  same  day 
found  Dr.  Archer  at  home.  ''No,"  she  said,  "I  will 
not  sit  down.  Will  this  do  ? "  laying  on  his  table  an 
open  letter  to  Roger  Grace.  "Read  it.  There  are 
three  one-hundred-dollar  notes  in  this  envelop.  Be 
careful  Mr.  Grace  gets  it  in  person." 

"Very  good;  it  is  as  it  should  be."  It  amused 
him  not  a  little,  both  the  cool  caution  and  the  letter, 
but  he  kept  a  grave  face  and  did  as  she  desired. 

The  letter  was  in  Lucretia's  best  style,  certainly 
not  Craig's,  although  he  had  copied  and  signed  it  in 
a  rather  tremulous  hand,  and  written  "Private"  on 
the  cover. 

"Is  that  all?  "she  said. 

"Yes,  that  is  all."  As  she  turned  to  go  out  the 
light  fell  full  upon  her.  She  was  of  a  corpse-like 
yellowish  pallor. 

' '  She  has  suffered, ' '  he  thought.  "  Is  it  that  boy  ?  " 
Her  face  was  stern.  There  was  a  certain  rigidity 
about  her  look.  Where  was  it  he  had  seen  that  col- 


CIRCUMSTANCE  467 

oring?  It  was  like  some  antique  marble.  He  went 
with  her  to  the  door.  "Good  morning."  She  made 
no  reply. 

She  walked  to  Second  Street,  and  took  the  street- 
car up  to  the  shipyards  of  Kichmond.  Here,  miles 
away  from  the  center  of  the  city,  she  entered  a  drug- 
gist's shop  and  had  made  up  an  old  prescription  of 
Dr.  Soper's  for  a  strong  preparation  of  aconite. 
When  she  had  once  complained  of  palpitation  of 
the  heart  he  had  given  her  this,  telling  her  to  be 
careful,  as  the  dose  was  small,  and  a  teaspoonful 
would  be  fatal.  She  had  never  used  it. 

The  druggist  warned  her  of  its  poisonous  power. 
She  said  through  her  veil  that  she  had  used  it  often. 
The  prescription  was  correct.  He  could  not  re- 
fuse it.  The  man's  doubts  troubled  her.  She 
started  out,  walking  swiftly.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
was  lost.  In  what  were  known  as  the  Northern  Lib- 
erties, the  yea-and-nay  plainness  of  Penn's  checker- 
board city  is  changed  in  the  wildering  confusion  of 
streets  crossing  at  all  angles.  She  was  made  calm 
again  by  the  need  to  find  her  way,  but  was  so  long 
delayed  that  she  missed  a  train.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  she  reached  Edgewood,  where  she 
went  at  once  to  her  room  and  began  to  pack  up  her 
clothes,  unassisted,  as  was  desirable,  for  the  accumu- 
lations were  many  and  valuable. 


XLV 

|UST  before  the  close  of  bank  hours  on 
Monday,  Roger  Grace  received  by  a 
messenger  a  letter  marked  "Private." 
He  had  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  was 
about  to  leave.  He  had  been  out  most 
of  the  morning.  A  clerk  reminded  him  that  Mr. 
Knellwood,  who  had  failed  to  find  him  earlier,  would 
return  at  three. 

"Thank  you.     When  he  comes  show  him  in." 
He  sat  down  and  read  the  letter,  with  a  vast  sense 
of  satisfaction,  of  thankfulness,  and  also  of  surprise. 

"  RESPECTED  SIR  :  I  have  not  had  a  moment  of  happiness 
since  I  broke  my  word  to  Mr.  Blount.  I  did  worse  to  threaten 
you  that  I  would  tell  what  I  knew  if  you  did  not  send  me 
money.  I  hope  if  ever  you  felt  sorry  for  anything  you  ever 
did  when  you  were  young,  you  will  feel  sorry  for  me.  I  was  in 
debt  and  did  not  know  where  to  turn.  I  hope  you  will  under- 
stand that  I  was  not  myself,  and  was  tempted.  I  am  going 
away.  May  I  entreat,  Sir,  that  you  will  forgive  me  ?  I  enclose 
three  hundred  dollars,  which  I  borrowed  from  my  sister.  I  paid 
my  debts  with  your  money. 

"  Respectfully, 

"LIONEL  CRAIG. 

"Button's  Hotel,  Market  Street." 

Grace  sat  still,  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He  was  in 
a  mood  to  be  touched  by  the  plea  and  to  be  sorry  for 

468 


CIRCUMSTANCE  469 

the  man.  He  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  sat  in  thought, 
comparing  his  own  case  with  that  of  this  miserable 
boy,  who  had  sinned  and  repented.  What  right  had 
he  to  blame  him?  Both  had  alike  been  tempted; 
both  had  fallen;  but  this  was  a  young  man,  not  a 
man  in  well-disciplined  middle  age.  Then,  too,  he 
himself  had  timidly  shrunk  from  facing  conse- 
quences, as  this  man,  scourged  by  conscience,  had 
found  courage  to  do.  He  had  reproached  himself 
with  cowardice,  with  failure  to  punish  that  meanest 
of  crimes,  blackmailing.  His  very  great  happiness 
at  this  relief  made  him  uncritically  charitable.  He 
took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote : 

"Mr.  Grace  has  received  Mr.  Craig's  note.  Mr.  Craig  may 
be  assured  that  the  matter  will  go  no  further.  Mr.  Grace  feels 
deeply  the  penitent  tone  of  Mr.  Craig's  letter,  and  hopes  it 
may  be  the  beginning  of  a  better  life.  He  returns  the  money 
in  a  check  to  Mr.  Craig's  order,  and  desires  that  Mr.  Craig  will 
consider  it  as  a  gift  from  one  who,  fully  appreciating  the 
motives  which  caused  it  to  be  returned,  prefers  not  to  keep  it." 

He  sent  his  note  at  once  to  Craig's  address.  In 
his  amazement  at  this  windfall,  Lionel  forgot  to  men- 
tion it  to  his  sister,  and  told  her  he  had  for  reasons 
of  prudence  burned  a  brief,  very  kind  note  from 
Mr.  Grace. 

And  as  for  Grace,  he  could  have  doubled  his 
check.  He  was  beyond  expression  relieved,  and 
with  the  relief  began  to  wonder  why  he  had  been 
such  a  fool.  He  had  hardly  added  this  letter  to  his 
sum  of  folly  and  sent  it  on  its  way  when  Knellwood 
entered.  Although  Grace  was  always  pleasant,  and 


470  CIRCUMSTANCE 

made  you  feel  that  you  were  welcome,  Knellwood  was 
conscious  that  there  was  more  than  common  pleas- 
antness in  his  usual  phrase.  "What  can  I  do  for 
you  to-day,  Knellwood?" 

"Nothing;  I  want,  for  a  wonder,  to  do  something 
for  you. ' ' 

"Well,  I  am  amiable.     Sit  down." 

"May  I  close  the  door?" 

'  *  Certainly.     What  is  it  ? " 

"When  you  honored  me  with  your  confidence  I 
felt  that,  as  to  a  part  of  what  you  said,  you  were 
utterly  wrong.  Indeed,  I  said  as  much.  You  went 
away,  and  I,  of  course,  knew  why.  You  were  seen 
at  Carlisle  by  that  fellow  Craig." 

"Goodness  gracious,  Knellwood!  Who  told  you 
that  ?  Surely  not  Martin ! ' ' 

"The  fellow  came  to  Miss  Markham's  quite  off  his 
head  last  night  and  saw  Miss  Clementina.  He  boasted 
that  he  had  seen  you  at  Carlisle,  and — " 

Grace  lifted  a  hand. 

"That  will  do,"  he  said,  flushing.  "Miss  Clemen- 
tina! Read  that,  Knellwood."  He  gave  him  Craig's 
note. 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  the  clergyman,  "that  this 
letter  is  altogether  like  the  man  Craig.  It  is  too 
clever.  The  hand" — and  he  smiled — "is  the  hand 
of  Esau.  But  no  matter.  It  is  a  confession.  You 
are  safe.  So  he  tried  to  blackmail  you?" 

"Yes,  and  I  yielded,"  said  Grace,  defiantly,  as  if 
expectant  of  criticism. 

"You  were  wrong,  Grace.  It  was  a  thing  to  meet 
with  prompt  courage.  It  was  a  wrong  to  the  com- 
munity, and,  as  you  see,  useless." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  471 

"I  would  do  it  again." 

"No,  never.  But  there  is  a  graver  matter.  What 
you  felt  most  was  that  you,  a  man  cursed  with  this 
craving,  could  not  with  a  clear  conscience  ask  a 
woman  you  had  taught  to  love  you  to  give  you  her 
life." 

"How  could  If" 

"How  could  you?  Only  see,  my  friend,  how  it 
has  worked  out  for  her.  Now  she  knows  too  much  or 
too  little.  You  are  in  honor  bound  to  let  her  know 
all — to  let  her  choose,  not  choose  for  her.  There  is 
no  other  course  possible." 

Grace  got  up  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  visible 
agitation. 

"Did  it  trouble  her?"  he  asked,  pausing,  a  hand 
on  his  friend's  shoulder. 

"My  dear  Grace,  she  cried  like  a  little  child." 

"Oh,  my  God!" 

"Do  you  think  that  a  woman  feels  as  you  do  about 
a  thing  like  this  ?  What  she  wants  is  to  comfort,  to 
help,  to  watch  over  you.  It  will  never  happen  again. 
It  is  not  the  common,  constant  temptation. ' ' 

"No,  it  is  worse."     He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

' '  Nonsense !  Go  like  a  man  and  talk  to  Archer, 
and,  above  all,  go  and  set  yourself  right  with  Miss 
Clementina. ' ' 

' '  And  suppose  she  is  foolish  enough  to  say  she  will 
marry  me  ? " 

"Then,  thank  God  to-night  for  the  gift.  Now  go, 
at  once.  Do  not  wait.  What  need  to  ask  her  to 
marry  you  ?  What  I  want  is  that,  as  an  honest  man, 
you  let  her  know  the  whole  truth,  and  why  your 
sick  conscience  made  you  desert  her." 


472  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  will  go.     I  will  at  least  do  that." 

Knellwood  smiled  behind  his  clerical  hat  as  he 
lifted  it.  ' '  You  will  go  now  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  will  go." 

The  rector  went  away,  amused  at  his  role  of 
matchmaker,  paid  a  visit  or  two,  and  dropped  in  late 
at  Mrs.  Swan  wick's.  He  found  Archer,  Margaret, 
and  her  husband. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  sail  next  week,  but  I  am 
ridiculously  well  and  consider  it  a  wicked  waste  of 
time  and  money." 

"We  shall  miss  you,"  said  Archer,  "and,  I  fear, 
so  will  the  Markhams." 

"May  I  tell  him?"  said  Margaret. 

"No,"  cried  Archer,  laughing;  "but  you  may  tell 
him  that  Mrs.  Hunter  leaves  on  Wednesday  for  ever 
and  ages,  as  the  Russians  say.  We  think  of  having 
fireworks." 

"From  all  I  have  heard,"  said  Knellwood,  "Miss 
Fairthorne  will  not  grieve.  As  to  the  rest— as  to 
your  secret,  I  may  at  least  be  permitted  to  guess  ? ' ' 

"No,  indeed!" 

"I  am  at  your  service  for  the  trousseau  in  Paris. 
They  say  I  am  given  over  to  church  millinery;  per- 
haps my  experience  may  be  of  use." 

Amused  at  the  idea  of  Knellwood  choosing  a 
trousseau,  Margaret  said  to  Archer : 

"I  made  no  promises." 

"Please  don't." 

"Well,  we  will  mention  no  names,"  laughed  Knell- 
wood. "I  am  rather  in  that  line  to-day  myself,  but 
mine  is— prophetic." 


CIRCUMSTANCE  473 

"How  exasperating  you  are!  Do  tell  us,"  said 
Madge. 

"I  might.  I  may  exchange  news,  but  I  guess 
yours,  and  you  cannot  guess  mine.  My  warmest 
congratulations,  Archer.  She  will  have  the  best  fel- 
low I  know. ' ' 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  Jack  made  a  wild  rush  into 
the  room  and  at  once  mounted  on  Knell  wood's  knee 
for  a  ride.  The  talk  went  on  as  to  the  mysteriously 
abrupt  departure  of  Mrs.  Hunter  and  what  John 
Fairthorne  would  say  or  do,  concerning  which  Mrs. 
Margaret  was  in  doubt.  As  Knellwood  and  Swan- 
wick  talked  together,  Archer  said  to  Margaret:  "I 
wish  you  would  go  out  to  Edgewood  and  stay  until 
she  leaves."  He  had  some  unstateable  apprehen- 
sion, and  urged  his  request  so  strongly  that  she  said, 
speaking  low:  "Why  are  you  so  anxious?" 

"I  do  not  know.  Are  you  never  in  that  state  of 
mind?" 

"No,  never,  without  a  cause." 

"But  you  will  go.  Perhaps  because  of  Mary  I 
am — well,  absurd,  if  you  like."  He  was  haunted  by 
that  stern,  sallow  face.  She  said,  at  length:  "I  will 
go,  but  only  because  you  wish  it." 

"Promise  me." 

"I  do.     I  will  go  out  early  to-morrow." 

At  last  Archer  rose.  "I  shall  be  at  Edgewood  in 
the  afternoon  to-morrow  I  hope." 

"Very  good.  We  shall  meet  there.  You  are  not 
going  so  soon,  Mr.  Knellwood  ? ' ' 

"I  must.  I  am  full  of  bits  of  business,"  and  he 
left  them. 


474  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"He  was  mysterious,"  said  Swan  wick.  "I  won- 
der what  it  was. ' ' 

"Are  you  very  glad  for  me,  Mrs.  Margaret?"  said 
Archer.  She  had  seemed  to  him  to  take  his  great 
news  very  calmly.  She  laughed.  "I  am  not  Mrs. 
Margaret.  I  am  Madge  now  and  always.  How  tall 
you  are !  I  like  nice  fat  little  doctors  nearer  my 
own  earthly  level.  Stoop  down  a  little.  I  want  to 
tell  you  something." 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  as  he  bent  over.  Then 
she  kissed  him,  crying:  "That  is  how  glad  I  am, 
Sydney  Archer!" 

' '  Oh,  my ! "  said  Jack.  * '  I  did  n  't  know  you  kissed 
everybody. ' ' 

"I  do  not,"  said  Madge.  "What  brought  you 
here,  you  little  scamp?" 

"I  heard  Mr.  Knell  wood,"  said  the  boy;  "I  like 
him.  He  's  got  nice  long  legs  to  ride." 


XLVI 

ever  mortal  was  afflicted  with  an  ague  of 
indecision  it  was  the  banker  after  he  had 
committed  himself  to  Knellwood.  He 
concluded  that  it  was  better  to  write 
what  he  had  to  say.  Next  he  recalled 
the  fact  that  he  had  written  one  letter  too  many  that 
day,  and  was  in  no  mood  to  write  letters.  After  all, 
what  could  he  write?  It  was  horrible  to  put  it  all 
in  black  ink,  to  be  burned  or  not,  as  might  chance. 

Meanwhile,  in  automatic  obedience  to  the  idea 
which  was  in  his  mind  on  leaving  his  office,  he 
walked  toward  Pine  Street  with  the  slow  pace  of  a 
man  deep  in  thought.  Thus  absorbed,  he  moved 
southward  down  Third  Street,  past  the  brokers'  of- 
fices and  the  beautiful  marble  front  of  Girard's 
Bank.  As  he  went  by  men  spoke  or  touched  their 
hats,  and  wondered  that  they  did  not  receive  the 
usual  cheerful  response. 

On  the  step,  with  the  bell-handle  in  his  grasp,  he 
still  hesitated.  "No,  I  cannot.  Not  to-day,"  he 
murmured.  He  turned  to  go. 

Then  circumstance,  in  the  shape  of  Susan,  opened 
the  door.  With  the  friendly  familiarity  of  the  old- 
fashioned  black  servant,  she  said : 

"Why,  Mr.  Grace,  we  ain't  seen  yo'  these  weeks. 
475 


476  CIRCUMSTANCE 

The  ladies  was  a-speakin'  of  yo'  this  very  mornin' 
at  breakfuss.  Come  in." 

He  entered,  saying:  "I  am  going  up  to  the  li- 
brary. Tell  Miss  Clementina  that  I  should  like  to 
see  her  in  the  parlor.  I  will  be  down  in  a  minute 
or  two." 

He  went  up-stairs  slowly,  and  passed  through  the 
open  door  of  his  bed-chamber.  His  library,  a  room 
thirty  feet  wide,  lay  across  the  entire  front  of  the 
house.  To  it  he  had  brought  most  of  the  books  he 
cared  to  have  about  him.  He  opened  the  door  and 
went  in. 

Perched  high  on  the  top  of  a  step-ladder  sat  the 
woman  he  had  come  to  see.  She  was  in  gray  linen, 
her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  she  wore  a  blue-check 
apron  to  preserve  her  from  the  dust  she  had  been 
carefully  blowing  or  brushing  from  a  precious  shelf 
of  daintily  bound  volumes  of  authors'  proofs.  The 
long  apron  gave  her  slight  figure  a  childlike  youth- 
fulness  which  Grace  at  any  other  time  would  have 
been  quick  to  observe.  Just  now  she  had  paused  to 
note  the  changes  which  the  hand  of  her  best-loved 
poet  had  made  on  a  page  proof  of  the  "Excursion." 
She  looked  up,  and,  coloring,  dropped  her  skirts  over 
a  pair  of  neat  ankles,  and  came  down  quickly  from 
her  perch.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two 
was  most  confused. 

"I  was  dusting  your  books,"  she  began;  "it  is 
quite  impossible  to  keep  out  the  dust.  Pray  excuse 
my  appearance."  It  certainly  needed  no  excuse. 
Without  any  word  of  greeting,  he  said:  "I  came  to 
get  a  book,  but  I  also  wanted  to  see  you." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  and  then,  hastily:  "Can 


CIRCUMSTANCE  477 

I  find  you  the  book  you  want?  I  really  think  I 
know  better  than  their  owner  where  your  books  are. 
I  was  quite  absorbed  in  your  Wordsworth  proofs. 
What  book  shall  I  find  for  you?" 

' '  That  can  wait.  I  have  an  explanation  to  make. ' ' 
He  drew  himself  up,  resolute  at  last.  "I  want  to 
say  that  what  that  drunken  young  man  told  you  last 
night  is  true ;  but  a  half  truth  is  often  worse  than  a 
lie.  This — this  horror — this  thing  has  happened  to 
me  five  times  in  my  life.  I  could  not  leave  you  in 
the  belief  that  I  am  a  common —  " 

She  broke  in :  "  Oh,  don 't !  I  do  not  want  to  know. 
You  are  very  good  to  wish  to  say  what  must  cost  you 
so  dear.  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  it.  I — a  man's 
whole  life  counts  for  something,  Mr.  Grace,  and  I 
know  what  yours  has  been."  She  seemed,  as  she 
stood  before  him,  to  be  a  larger  personality  than  he 
had  known  in  the  quiet  past.  She  had  the  dignity 
which  some  little  women  possess.  A  beautiful  ten- 
derness was  in  her  tear-filled  eyes. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  after  she  ceased  to 
speak.  The  gentle  truth  of  the  excuse  overcame  the 
strong  man.  He  had  wondered  again  and  again 
what  she  would  say.  He  had  never  dreamed  that 
she  could  or  would  be  anything  but  shocked,  or 
would  fail  to  feel  the  disgust  the  remembrance  had 
for  him.  He  sat  down,  with  his  hand  on  his  fore- 
head. The  woman  stood  before  him.  Boundless 
pity,  born  out  of  the  first  love  of  a  restrained  and 
limited  life,  rose  up  and  captured  her. 

The  man  was  as  much  a  child  as  she  had  been  the 
night  before.  He  shook  with  the  passion  of  an  emo- 
tion he  was  unable  to  restrain. 


478  CIRCUMSTANCE 

She  put  out  a  hand  and  timidly  touched  his  shoul- 
der. She  was  on  the  verge  of  an  equal  loss  of  self- 
control.  "Please  not  to— to  do  so,"  she  said.  "I 
can't  bear  it." 

"Why  are  you  so  good  to  me?"  said  he,  not  look- 
ing up. 

"I  am  only  just,  not  good." 

"No.  Is  it  possible?  How  can  I  believe  that! 
Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it !  Your  sweet  goodness,  I  mean. 
I  am  not  fit  to  talk  to  you.  I  must  go."  He  stood 
up.  She  said,  instantly : 

"You  cannot  go." 

"I  must." 

"But—"  and  she  flushed  and  was  silent,  speaking 
only  with  her  eyes. 

"But  what?  You  have  not  blamed  me?  Say 
what  you  will;  I  have  deserved  the  worst  you  can 
say." 

"How  could  I  hurt  you?  How  could  I  blame 
you?  You,  who  are  so  good  to  me,  to  all — " 

"You  ought  to  wish  never  to  see  me  again." 

"No,  no.  I  can  say  nothing  like  that.  Oh,  never 
— because — "  Then  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  saw  the 
truth  in  hers.  He  held  her  off,  seizing  both  wrists 
and  facing  her. 

"You  love  me ?  I  ought  to  be  sorry  that — you  love 
me.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes.  My  God !  It  is  pitiful." 

"Yes,  I  love  you,"  she  said,  faintly.  "Oh,  what 
have  I  done  ?  Let  me  go.  How  could  I ! " 

"Never!"  he  cried,  and  he  lifted  her  hand  rever- 
ently to  his  lips,  as  Miss  Letitia  entered. 

For  the  first  and  last  time  in  her  life  she  said: 


CIRCUMSTANCE  479 

"Great  heavens!"  and  then,  "Clementina,  what  does 
this  mean,  child  f ' ' 

"It  means,  dear  lady,"  said  Grace,  "that  I  have 
what  no  man  deserves  less  than  I.  Miss  Clementina 
has  done  me  this  honor." 

Miss  Letitia  put  up  her  glasses  and  regarded  him 
as  a  farmer  looks  at  the  culprit  boy  caught  stealing 
apples. 

"I  am  surprised,  Clementina.  I  think  I  should 
have  been  consulted.  This  is  very  unexpected.  I 
was  not  prepared  for  it." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Clementina,  meekly. 

"You  will  have  the  kindness,  Mr.  Grace,  to  follow 
me.  I  desire  a  few  words  with  you,"  said  Miss 
Markham,  with  severity. 

Grace,  embarrassed  and  also  a  little  amused,  said : 
"Certainly." 

' '  You  had  better  go  on  dusting  the  books,  Clemen- 
tina," said  her  sister.  She  went  down-stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  Grace.  It  is  improbable  that  Clementina 
returned  to  her  interrupted  occupation. 

What  thereafter  passed  between  Miss  Letitia  and 
Roger  Grace  it  is  needless  to  state,  but,  as  he  went 
back  to  the  library  and  found  Clementina,  it  is  to  be 
presumed  that  Miss  Markham  was  satisfied.  Grace 
came  out  of  the  interview  much  the  better  for  the 
mirth  it  aroused ;  but  when,  a  few  days  after,  he 
spoke  of  it  to  Clementina,  she  said:  "You  must  not 
laugh  at  her.  I  never  did.  She  thinks  the  Mark- 
hams  belong  to  some  angelic  peerage.  You  must  not 
mind  what  she  said." 

"I?     No!     I  shall  buy  this  House  and  give  it  to 


480  CIRCUMSTANCE 

her,  or  you  shall,  and  we  will  put  an  end  to  all  this 
work  and  worry." 

"She  will  not  let  you." 

"But  it  will  be  you,  dear.  Gracious,  how  pretty 
you  are ! "  It  was  true.  The  butterfly  had  emerged 
from  the  cocoon  of  a  restricted  life,  and  was  shining 
in  the  light  and  liberty  of  the  sunshine— love. 


XLVII 


|VEEY  one,  even  Archer,  had  left  Mrs. 
Swan  wick's  that  afternoon.  Husband 
and  wife  were  about  to  dress  for  din- 
ner when  the  bell  rang.  She  ordered 
the  children  to  the  nursery.  Madge 
made  haste  to  say  to  the  servant : 

''Not  at  home."  But  Eoger  Grace  was  not  to  be 
denied.  He  was  in  a  state  of  effervescent  joy. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "I  insisted.  I  heard  your 
husband's  voice."  He  had  been,  for  a  year  or  two, 
a  most  valuable  friend  to  Harry,  and  had  by  degrees 
attracted  Madge.  Moreover,  she  was  interested  in 
his  slowly  developing  taste  for  society,  pictures,  and 
rare  books.  He  had  been  more  than  merely  gener- 
ous to  her  charities.  She  had  learned  to  like  him 
and  to  respect  him  of  course,  for,  unlike  Mary,  she 
had  no  liking  for  those  whom  she  could  not  entirely 
respect. 

She  made  him  welcome.  No,  he  would  not  return 
to  dine.  He  had  missed  Swanwiek  at  his  office. 
There  was  a  large  bond  affair  on  hand,  and  a  rather 
complicated  lease  of  the  Wilton  and  Detroit  Kail- 
road  to  be  drawn.  Thus  he  explained  his  visit. 

"I  should  like  to  draw  it,"  said  Madge,  laughing. 
"Keep  still,  Jack;  sit  down."     The  boy  looked  on 
Grace  as  his  legitimate  prey. 
31  481 


482  CIECUMSTANCE 

"You  shall  see  it,"  said  Harry. 

"And  the  fee?"  she  laughed. 

"It  will  be  large,"  said  the  banker.  "I  came  in 
to  ask  you  to  call  on  me  to-morrow. ' ' 

"Come  and  dine  with  Harry.  I  go  to  Edgewood 
for  a  day  or  two. ' ' 

"Indeed!  Yes,  I  will  come.  There  is  one  other 
little  matter.  I  came  to  speak  of  it,  too.  Not  quite 
as  important.  Perhaps  you  may  like  to  guess  at  it." 

"It  cannot  be  up  to  the  news  we  have  just  had," 
said  Harry.  "Mrs.  Hunter,  that  female  Nimrod,  a 
mighty  hunter  before  the  Lord — or  the  devil — de- 
parts on  Wednesday." 

"Indeed !"  exclaimed  Grace.  "You  are  to  be  con- 
gratulated, and  especially  Miss  Fairthorne. ' ' 

"That  is  not  all,"  said  Harry. 

' '  Hush ! ' '  said  Madge.  ' '  My  husband  cannot  keep 
a  secret." 

"No  one  can,"  said  Grace,  grimly.  "I  will  test 
my  belief.  Here,  Jack,  I  mean  to  tell  you  a  secret. 
If  you  keep  it  five  minutes  I  will  give  you  a  pony." 

"And  a  saddle?"  said  Jack. 

"Yes,  and  a  bridle." 

Grace  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Now,  five  minutes,  sir."  He  took  out  his  watch, 
laughing. 

"Come  here,"  saiti  Madge.  "You  are  only  six. 
You  are  too  young  for  a  pony." 

"No,"  said  Grace.     "Now  we  begin." 

Madge  laughed.    "Tell  me,  Jack." 

"No,  mama." 

"If  you  do  not  tell  me  at  once,"  said  Harry,  "I 
will  thrash  you  every  night  for  a  week. ' ' 


CIRCUMSTANCE  483 

"Mama  won't  let  you." 

"And  I  will  sell  your  pony,  Jack." 

"You  can't  until  I  get  him,  daddy."  He  re- 
mained firm. 

"Four  minutes,  Jack." 

"But  if  you  do  not  tell  me,"  said  Eetta,  "I  will 
never  love  you  again." 

"You  're  a  goose,  Retta." 

"Time  's  up,"  laughed  Grace.  "I  have  found  the 
only  fellow  that  can  keep  a  secret.  Go  and  tell 
mama.  The  pony  is  all  right." 

"Mama,  the  secret  is  somebody  is  going  to  marry 
Mr.  Grace." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Harry,  "some  day." 

"No,  now-day,"  said  Jack. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Swanwick,  I  am  like  a  child  for  the 
joy  of  it.  It  is  Miss  Clementina." 

"Well,  that  is  almost  as  good  as  the  other,"  cried 
Harry.  "Nonsense,  Madge!  I  must.  Archer  is 
engaged  to  Mary  Fairthorne." 

"I  told  you,"  cried  Madge,  "I  was  sure  he  would 
tell." 

"Well,  you  dear  people,  my  belief  is  again  justi- 
fied. No  one  can  keep  a  secret.  I  owe  you  much, 
Mrs.  Swanwick ;  and  this,  too,  in  a  way. ' ' 

"Upon  my  word,  Madge,"  said  Harry,  after  Grace 
had  gone,  "I  must  have  a  bottle  of  champagne  to- 
day. I  hope  nothing  more  will  happen  this  week." 


XLVIII 

N  this  Monday  afternoon  Mrs.  Hunter 
despatched  her  brother  to  New  York,  a 
thoroughly  alarmed  man,  and  he  thus 
passes  out  of  this  story  toward  the 
sad  fate  of  those  who  lack  power  to 
resist  temptation. 

Mrs.  Swanwick,  to  Mary's  great  relief  and  some- 
what to  her  surprise,  appeared  at  Edgewood  on 
Tuesday  morning,  and  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  had  re- 
turned the  afternoon  of  the  day  before,  was  not 
pleased  with  this  addition  of  another  and  a  too 
watchful  witness. 

Mr.  Fairthorne  kept  his  room  on  Monday.  He 
was  restless  all  day,  complaining  of  sharp  pains  in 
his  heart,  and  asked  repeatedly  for  Lucretia.  Dr. 
Soper  had  been  sent  for,  and  had  advised  quiet  and 
turkey  soup  rather  than  chicken  soup.  He  hoped 
the  arsenical  drops  would  be  given  punctually  ten 
minutes  before  the  meal,  but  if  unfortunately  for- 
gotten then  to  be  given  ten  minutes  after  the  meal. 
Above  all,  there  should  be  no  excitement.  He  went 
away,  as  usual,  optimistically  at  ease,  leaving  the 
nieces  by  no  means  reassured. 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  a  late  supper,  having  arrived 
after  dinner.     After  a  little  more  packing,  she  sat 
484 


CIRCUMSTANCE  485 

down  in  her  wrapper  at  the  open  window.  She  was 
summing  up  her  chances.  If  she  went  away,  as  she 
knew  she  must,  she  could  keep  Fairthorne  in  a  good 
humor  for  a  while  by  letters.  But  would  they  let 
him  see  her  letters?  She  was  a  woman  who  found 
it  impossible  to  guess  what  others  would  do  except 
by  asking  herself  what,  under  like  circumstances,  she 
would  do  herself.  She  decided  that  Mary  Fair- 
thorne would  not  hesitate  to  read  and  burn  any  let- 
ters she  might  write.  She  would  certainly  take  care 
that  they  did  not  reach  Mr.  Fairthorne.  As  surely 
Mrs.  Swanwick  would  stand  implacably  in  her  way, 
and  no  letter  from  the  uncle  would  ever  be  mailed. 
She  misjudged  both  women. 

Archer  had  said  that  he  did  not  think  any  one 
would  try  to  test  the  validity  of  the  codicil.  That 
might  or  might  not  be  the  case.  It  was  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne she  feared.  On  condition  that  she  remained 
with  him  and  gave  up  the  school  appointment  he 
had  promised  to  leave  her  money.  He  had  kept  his 
word.  Now,  she  was  to  be  driven  out  and  forced  to 
leave  him  without  reasonable  excuse.  What  would 
he  do?  She  was  very  sure  what  he  would  do.  He 
would  be  furious.  All  the  chances  were  hostile. 

But  he  had  a  weak  heart,  and,  Archer  had  said, 
was  in  constant  peril.  Dr.  Soper  was  not  of  that 
opinion;  it  was  latent  gout.  She  smiled.  What  a 
poultice  of  a  man !  She  had  at  last  seen  enough 
to  believe  that  Archer  was  right ;  Mr.  Fairthorne 
might  die  suddenly,  but  when?  If  he  lived  even  a 
few  weeks  he  would  surely  revenge  her  unexplained 
desertion  by  changing  his  will.  If  he  lived?  She 


486  CIRCUMSTANCE 

had  always  faced  impending  disaster  with  resolu- 
tion, and  hesitated  at  no  remedial  means  short  of 
positive  punishable  crime.  Again  and  again  she  had 
come  near  to  it,  and  then  had  found  some  less  risky 
resort.  But  here  she  saw  none. 

Pilgrim  had  written  that  he  had  put  in  trust  for 
her  in  Boston  enough  to  give  her  for  life  the  annual 
income  he  had  been  paying  by  a  quarterly  draft. 
He  wished  to  end  even  this  slight  relation.  Why  he 
had  ever  given  the  money  she  could  not  see,  but  now 
it  would  certainly  be  safe  whether  he  died  or 
changed  his  mind. 

Then,  too,  her  gains  had  been  large,  and  the  auto- 
graph business  profitable.  Would  Mr.  Fairthorne 
ever  discover  the  share  she  had  exacted?  What  if 
the  man  in  South  Street,  losing  her  as  an  interme- 
diary, should  betray  her  to  Fairthorne,  or  be  forced 
to  confess?  WThat  then?  There  was  another  risk, 
for  other  skilled  autograph  collectors  came  to  see 
this  collection. 

She  leaned  on  the  ledge  of  the  open  window  and 
looked  out  at  the  night.  A  dog  bayed  in  a  distant 
farmyard.  Now  and  then  an  early  katydid  shrilled 
its  sharp  statement,  "Katy-did,  katy-did  n't." 

"If  before  I  count  nine,"  she  said,  "no,  thirteen, 
that  dog  bays  again,  I  will  do  it."  As  she  spoke, 
Felisa,  who  usually  slept  in  her  room,  leaped  on  the 
window-sill.  It  startled  Lucretia.  A  moment  later 
she  repeated : 

"Thirteen!  No,  thirteen  will  not  do.  It  is  my 
unlucky  number.  It  shall  be  fifteen." 

The  night  was  intensely  dark.    She  stared  through 


CIECUMSTANCE  487 

the  open  space  and  waited.  Then  she  began  to 
count,  slowly:  "One,  two."  As  she  said  "thirteen" 
the  long,  melancholy  cry  of  the  dog  broke  the 
stillness. 

"There,"  she  cried,  "I  will  do  it!  I  wish  it  had 
not  been  thirteen." 

The  strange  howl,  or  I  know  not  what,  disturbed 
Felisa.  She  sprang  on  Lucretia's  shoulder  and  fled 
with  a  wild  cry  to  the  door,  thence  back  to  the  win- 
dow, leaped  a  few  feet  to  the  veranda  roof,  and  was 
lost  to  view. 

'  *  Ye  saints ! ' '  exclaimed  Lucretia.  She  was  startled 
by  the  hollow  sound  of  her  own  voice,  and  strangely 
troubled  by  Felisa 's  flight.  A  vague  fear  came  upon 
her.  It  was  like  a  desertion  of  the  one  friendly 
thing  in  an  unfriendly  house.  For  a  while  she 
looked  out  into  the  unrevealing  night.  At  last  she 
called:  "Felisa,  Felisa."  There  was  no  response. 
Sitting  down,  she  let  fall  the  masses  of  her  dark  hair, 
and  slowly  ran  her  hands  through  it  as  she  tried  to 
strengthen  her  resolve. 

Yes,  she  must  make  sure.  There  was  so  much  she 
wanted — an  un watched  life,  the  demi-mondaine  free- 
dom, the  opera,  the  cafe  chantant,  the  social  Texas 
of  Cairo  or  Tangiers,  anything  except  the  tiresome 
decencies  in  which  she  had  patiently  lived.  And 
Kitty?  She  had  promised  to  go  with  her. 

She  turned  aside  coolly,  as  often  before,  to  sum 
up  the  danger.  How  much  aconite  was  needed? 
Her  time  was  short.  She  went  to  bed,  and  could  not 
sleep.  The  dog  bayed.  She  shut  the  window,  and 
still  tossed  about,  restless  through  the  long  hours  of 


488  CIRCUMSTANCE 

the  night.  She  ordered  breakfast  in  her  room,  and, 
making  a  careful  toilet,  entered  the  library  before 
ten.  Felisa  left  her  chair  and  came  to  purr  a  wel- 
come at  her  feet.  Madge  had  tried  to  persuade  her 
uncle  to  remain  in  bed  for  the  day.  Dr.  Soper  had 
said  rest  was  desirable.  The  old  man  would  have  his 
own  way.  Why  had  they  refused  to  let  Archer  at- 
tend him?  Soper  was  a  petticoat  doctor.  He  in- 
sisted on  rising  even  earlier  than  usual,  and  after 
breakfast  went  into  the  library.  Here  Mrs.  Hunter 
found  him  seated. 

"I  will  come  back  presently,"  said  Madge,  and  left 
the  room  as  Lucretia  entered. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  Fairthorne  said  to  Lu- 
cretia. ' '  If  you  neglect  me  I  shall  die. ' ' 

She  soothed  him,  stroked  his  gray  hair,  and  gave 
a  laughing  account  of  her  shopping  and  of  the  bad 
manners  of  the  shop-girls.  Had  he  taken  his  ar- 
senic ?  As  she  desired  to  please  Soper,  she  had  given 
it  steadily  of  late. 

"No;  no  one  looked  after  him."  This  was  incor- 
rect ;  Mary  had  given  it  before  breakfast,  but  he  had 
forgotten. 

"I  will  give  it,"  she  said;  "Dr.  Soper  wishes  it 
given  in  a  little  sherry." 

She  went  down-stairs  and  poured  into  the  small 
medicine-cup  a  glassful  of  sherry  wine.  In  her  own 
room  she  added  a  teaspoonful  of  aconite  and  then  a 
little  water.  She  put  the  half-empty  vial  in  her 
pocket  and  returned  to  the  library. 

On  the  stair  she  halted.  The  indecision  of  the 
unhabitual  criminal  was  upon  her.  Was  there  no 


CIRCUMSTANCE  489 

other  way?  Yes,  she  would  tell  him  she  must  go 
away.  That  would  do.  She  would  try  him. 

"I  will  say  Lionel  is  ill."  Glad  of  her  self -re- 
prieve, she  went  on  up-stairs.  ' '  If  he  is  good  to  me, ' ' 
she  said,  "I  will  not  do  it.  If  he  is  angry— it  will 
be  he  who  decides." 

She  entered  and  set  down  the  glass  on  his  table. 
Then  she  knelt  and  took  his  hand.  "Mr.  Fair- 
thorne,"  she  said,  "my  brother  is  ill  in  New  York. 
I  must  go  to  him.  Cannot  you  do  without  me  for  a 
few  weeks  ?  I  am  in  great  trouble. ' ' 

The  old  man  looked  around  at  her.  "You  can't 
go.  You  promised  to  stay  with  me.  I  am  weaker 
every  day.  Yon  won't  leave  me,  Lucretia?" 

"But  Lionel  is  ill,  sir.  I — I  have  to  go  to  him. 
Please  to  be  good  to  me." 

"You  promised,"  he  said,  with  dull  persistency. 

"But  I  must  go.  I  have  no  choice.  I  will  soon 
come  back." 

He  was  now,  as  always,  excited  by  opposition.  He 
pulled  away  his  hand  and  sat  up.  ' '  I  won 't  have  it. 
I  can  change  my  mind,  too.  If  you  go  away  and 
desert  me  you  will  suffer  for  it.  I  will  not  let  you. ' ' 
His  eyes  filled,  from  the  childishness  of  age;  a  tear 
rolled  down  his  cheek.  He  was  conscious  of  his 
weakness,  and  angered  by  this  signal  of  loss  of  self- 
restraint.  He  cried  out :  "You  are  ungrateful,  damn 
you!" 

Lucretia  rose.  Her  wide  eyes  narrowed  to  a  line, 
and  her  face  set  hard.  "I  can't  bear  to  have  you 
threaten  me.  It  is  sad  enough  to  leave  you." 

"Then,  stay." 


490  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"I  will  write.  I  will  see  what  I  can  do.  I  will 
try  to  stay." 

"Well,  then,  give  me  my  medicine."  He  put  out 
a  shaking  hand  to  reach  the  glass. 

She  quickly  anticipated  his  act,  and  stood  up, 
again  indecisive.  Yes,  she  must!  As  she  turned 
toward  him,  he  said:  "I  hate  that  stuff.  You  have 
upset  me  with  your  cursed  nonsense.  Between  Soper 
and  you,  I  shall  be  poisoned.  Why  do  you  stand 
there  staring  at  me  ?  Let  me  get  the  stuff  down  and 
be  done  with  it." 

She  stood  like  a  statue,  unable  to  move.  It  was 
only  to  put  out  her  hand.  She  tried  to  do  so.  She 
could  not.  Of  a  sudden  she  broke  into  a  profuse, 
chilly  sweat. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  he  cried;  "I  have  pain  in  my 
heart.  You  look  like  a  witch.  Why  do  you  keep 
me  waiting  ?  You  have  upset  me,  and  even  that  ass 
Soper  said  I  was  not  to  be  excited." 

Lucretia  was  motionless.  She  rallied,  saying: 
"The  cup  is  too  full.  I— I  made  a  mistake.  I  will 
pour  some  out." 

"Nonsense !  You  look  as  if  you  were  really  going 
to  poison  me."  He  laughed  feebly.  "Case  of  ante- 
cedent remorse  ? ' '  For  a  moment  he  was  his  former 
self;  the  fine,  old,  high-bred  face  lighted  up,  well 
pleased,  as  he  added:  "Lucretia  is  a  fatal  name.  I 
never  thought  of  it  before.  A  name  to  hang  any 
woman.  There  was  the  Borgia,  and — " 

She  broke  in  abruptly,  terrified: 

"Why  do  you  talk  so?  You  frighten  me."  She 
moved  a  step  away,  the  glass  in  her  hand. 


CIECUMSTANCE  491 

' '  Stuff ! "  he  said.  ' '  Give  me  the  medicine.  What 
on  earth  is  the  matter  ?  "  He  put  out  his  hand. 

"No,"  she  said. 

He  stood  up. 

"I  will  have  it." 

"Please,  sir,  sit  down.  Take  care.  You  will  spill 
it.  You  are  excited.  You  shall  have  it  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

"I  want  it  now.  Do  you  hear?  Every  one  bul- 
lies me. ' '  He  caught  her  arm,  and,  being  still  strong, 
snatched  at  the  glass,  crying :  ' '  Give  it  to  me. ' '  She 
pushed  him  back,  and  the  wine  fell  over  his  shirt- 
front. 

Suddenly  he  grew  white.  His  face  twitched,  his 
eyes  rolled  from  side  to  side.  He  exclaimed:  "Oh, 
my  heart ! ' '  With  a  low,  hoarse  cry,  the  final 
wail  of  pain,  he  fell  back,  shook  all  over,  and  was 
dead. 

For  a  moment  Lucretia  stood  appalled.  Then  she 
staggered  backward,  away  from  him,  still  looking  at 
the  changing  face.  She  threw  out  on  the  floor  what 
little  was  left  in  the  cup,  which  she  dropped  into  her 
pocket.  Casting  a  look  of  horror  at  the  gray,  fallen 
head,  the  large,  inert  body,  but  a  moment  ago  alive 
and  angry,  she  seized  the  bell-pull  and  rang  it  vio- 
lently. 

As  she  ran  to  the  door,  she  met  Mary  Fairthorne 
and  her  sister. 

' '  He  is  dead !  He  is  dead !  I  was  reading  to  him ! 
All  of  a  sudden  he  cried  out,  'My  heart!  my  heart!' 
Oh,  send  for  a  doctor,  quick,  quick ! ' ' 

"It  is  useless,"  said  Margaret.    "Oh,  Mary,  he  is 


492  CIRCUMSTANCE 

gone!  He  is  gone!  He  is  dead!  Stay  here  with 
Mary,  Mrs.  Hunter— 

"I  cannot,"  she  said.  She  had  an  intense  terror 
of  the  dead. 

"I  will  stay  alone,"  said  Mary.  "Run,  Madge, 
and  send  for  Dr.  Archer,  Soper,  any  one.  Send  at 
once,  but  it  is  useless.  My  poor  old  uncle !  Ah,  how 
good  you  were  to  me ! "  The  latter  days  were  for- 
gotten. She  threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  him, 
overcome  with  grief. 

The  scared  servants  came  to  the  door,  huddled  in 
a  group.  Mary  rose  and  gave  some  quiet  orders. 
The  dead  man  was  carried  into  his  chamber  and 
laid  on  the  bed. 

Mrs.  Hunter  had  gone  to  her  own  room.  She 
threw  herself  on  a  lounge,  limp  and  weak.  Pres- 
ently she  got  up,  and,  finding  a  flask,  drank  a  long 
draught  of  the  brandy.  In  a  little  while  she  felt 
better. 

' '  What  an  escape !  What  an  escape ! ' '  She  got  up, 
washed  out  the  cup  and  emptied  the  half-filled  vial 
of  aconite  out  of  the  window.  Next  she  carefully 
removed  the  label  and  rinsed  the  bottle.  After  this 
she  lay  down  again,  and,  with  a  sense  of  entire  re- 
lief, fell  into  thought. 

"I  must  ask  to  stay  to  the  funeral.  That  will  be 
best — and  mourning?  I  suppose  I  must.  It  is 
rather  a  waste,  but,  after  all,  it  becomes  me.  What 
an  escape ! ' ' 

In  the  evening  she  wrote  a  note : 

"  DEAR  Miss  FAIRTHORNE  :  I  had  meant  to  leave  on  Wednes- 
day not  to  return.  I  had  not  told  your  uncle.  You  and  I 


CIRCUMSTANCE  493 

have  not  been  friends,  and  perhaps  my  own  unfortunate 
temperament  has  been  at  fault.  That  I  was  useful  and 
devoted  to  your  uncle  you  know.  May  I  not  ask  the  privilege 
of  remaining  for  his  funeral? 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  LUCRETIA  HUNTER." 

Mary  read  it  and  wrote  in  reply: 

"  I  see  no  objection.  M.  F." 

When,  three  days  later,  they  assembled  in  the  little 
graveyard  of  St.  David's  Church,  Lucretia,  tall  and 
handsome,  in  deep  black,  came  last  to  the  grave, 
looked  down,  threw  in  a  handful  of  lilies  of  the  val- 
ley and  went  away  to  the  station. 

Two  weeks  later,  as  Grace  was  on  his  way  to  dine 
with  the  Swanwicks,  a  quiet  family  dinner,  he  saw 
Archer  on  the  far  side  of  the  street.  He  crossed  over 
and  joined  him.  As  they  went  on,  Archer  asked: 
"What  day  did  Knell  wood  sail?" 

"Yesterday.  He  changed  his  steamer  and  has 
waited.  I  do  not  know  why. ' ' 

"It  would  be  strange  if  he  were  to  come  upon 
Mrs.  Hunter  and  poor  little  Miss  Kitty  in  Europe." 

"When,"  returned  Grace,  "I  chanced  to  say  to 
him  that  she  had  gone  to  join  Mrs.  Hunter  and  was 
going  abroad  with  her,  he  said,  'I  trust  that  we  shall 
not  meet.'  ' 

"It  has  troubled  Miss  Fairthorne,"  said  Archer, 
"more  than  it  has  Mrs.  Swan  wick.  Harry  went 
after  Miss  Kitty  to  New  York,  but  she  was  very  un- 


494  CIRCUMSTANCE 

pleasant  and  perfectly  under  Mrs.  Hunter's  control. 
It  was  useless." 

' '  I  should  think  that  a  threat  to  contest  that  amaz- 
ing codicil  would  bring  Mrs.  Hunter  to  terms." 

"Yes,"  said  Archer,  "it  might,  but  Miss  Kitty  has 
the  obstinacy  of  the  weak,  and,  besides  that,  the 
family  would  not  willingly  act  against  Mr.  Fair- 
thorne's  will.  On  the  whole,  they  are  wise.  You, 
of  course,  know  that  he  left  Miss  Morrow,  to  our 
surprise,  only  as  much  as  he  left  Mrs.  Hunter,  and 
then  divided  his  large  estate  between  Mrs.  Swanwick 
and  Miss  Mary." 

"I  heard  as  much.  What  becomes  of  his  auto- 
graphs?" 

"Thereby  hangs  a  rather  queer  story.  They  are 
left  to  the  university.  In  making  a  valuation  of 
them,  the  experts  found  that  a  good  many  of  those 
lately  acquired  and  set  down  at  high  figures  were  of 
more  than  doubtful  authenticity,  some  of  them  ob- 
vious forgeries." 

"Mrs.  Hunter  again,"  said  Grace,  laughing. 

"Possibly,"  said  Archer,  "or  probably.  A  word 
as  to  Blount,  Mr.  Grace." 

"Well?" 

"Do  not  help  him  too  much.  Don't  make  life  too 
easy  for  him." 

"I  owe  him  much,  Archer;  more  than  you  know." 

"And  yet,  I  think  I  am  right.  He  has  a  very 
stoutly  held  belief  in  himself." 

"That  is  so.  I  will  keep  it  in  mind.  But  the 
problem  of  how  to  help  and  not  to  harm  is  not  al- 
ways an  easy  one. ' '  For  a  moment  he  did  not  speak. 


CIRCUMSTANCE  495 

Then  he  said:  "How  strangely  influential  are  the 
accidents  of  life,  the  circumstance  that  seems  at  the 
time  so  small." 

"And  character,  as  it  meets  them,  and  bends,  or 
breaks,  or  stands  fast, ' '  said  Archer. 

"True,  true,"  returned  Grace,  "but  here  we  are. 
There  are  Miss  Clementina  and  Miss  Mary  on  the 
steps.  I  thought  we  were  late." 

A  few  months  later  Grace  received  a  letter  from 
Knellwood : 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  What  you  say  of  Archer's  opinion  and  ad- 
vice is  very  pleasant  to  hear.  What  little  I  can  do  for  you  I  do 
every  day.  May  it  help  you. 

"I  enjoyed  our  dear  old  cathedrals,  and  then  wandered  on 
to  the  Continent.  At  Monaco  to  my  surprise  I  saw,  unseen  of 
them,  Mrs.  Hunter  and  Craig  as  they  came  out  of  the  door  of 
the  gambling  saloon.  She  was  ghastly  white.  Had  she  lost 
money?  I  do  not  know.  He  was  a  bloated,  ill-dressed,  flabby 
wreck.  Miss  Morrow  was  not  with  them,  and  I  left  that  even- 
ing. Can  nothing  be  done  to  rescue  the  poor  girl? 

"  I  wish  to  be  remembered  to  all  who  care  for  me. 
"Yours  truly, 

"CYRIL  KNELLWOOD." 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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>rm  L-9— 15wi-2 


C49     Circum- 

»uo     stance* 

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